V   Tfc.    Tk  - 

• 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


THE  LONE  HOUSE 


BY 

AMELIA  E.   BARR 

AUTHOR  OF  "  JAN  VEDDER'S  WIFE,"  "  A  DAUGHTER  OF  FIFE," 

"  THE  BOW  OF  ORANGE  RIBBON,"  "  THE  SQUIRE 

OF  SANDAL  SIDE,"  ETC.,  ETC. 


NEW   YORK: 
DODD,   MEAD   &   COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHT,  1893, 

BY 
DODD,  MEAD  &  COMPANY. 


PS 


THE  LONE  HOUSE. 


CHAPTER   I. 

The  rocky  Rhinns  o'  Galloway, 

The  Covenanters'  sure  retreat : 
The  wild,  waste  moors  o'  Galloway, 

Trod  by  the  Martyrs'  weary  feet. 

r  I  ^HERE  is  an  exceedingly  picturesque  prom- 
1  ontory  at  the  extreme  end  of  the  western 
coast  of  Scotland  called  Galloway.  It  is  no  un- 
kenned  land.  The  Roman  galleys  sailed  its 
estuaries.  The  first  stone  church  in  Scotland 
was  within  its  boundaries  ;  and  Saint  Ninian 
made  its  shrines  famous  throughout  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  kingdoms,  and  all  the  races  of  Ireland, 
and  even  far  beyond  the  native  seas.  Memo 
ries  of  the  Bruce  and  his  brave  deeds  are 
written  on  the  hills  that  guard  Loch  Trool. 
The  Covenanters  fled  to  its  moors  and  moun 
tains  for  shelter,  and  some  of  them  left  there  a 

3 


4  THE   LONE  HOUSE. 

testimony  of  martyrdom  which  is  green  even  to 
this  generation.  It  was  the  home  of  the  great 
families  of  Gordon  of  Kenmuir,  of  the  Ken- 
nedys,  Hurrays,  Hays,  Dalrymples,  M'Dougalls, 
and  of  those  M'Cullochs  who  so  harassed  the 
people  of  the  Isle  of  Man,  that  they  had  a 
common  prayer  against  them  :  — 

"  Keep  me,  my  good  cows,  my  sheep,  and  my  bullocks, 
From  Satan,  from  sin,  and  those  thievish  M'Cullochs." 

Walter  Scott  used  its  grand  coast  for  local 
colouring  in  Guy  Mannering ;  and  the  castle  of 
Baldoon,  belonging  to  the  Earl  of  Galloway, 
was  the  scene  of  that  tragedy  immortalized  in 
"  The  Bride  of  Lammermoor."  Burns  sang  of 
"  Banks  of  the  Cree,"  and  in  the  annals  of  war 
and  learning  the  men  of  Galloway  have  ever 
been  famous.  Still,  its  religious  element  is  in 
its  modern  history  its  dominant  one  ;  and  from 
the  Rhinns  of  Galloway  have  come  men  of  the 
most  profound  religious  convictions  —  forefront 
men  in  any  question  of  Dissent  —  descendants 
of  those  heroes  who,  in  the  days  of  the  Stuarts, 
fled  to  the  rocky  fastnesses  not  only  to  save 
their  lives,  but  also  to  scatter  the  good  seed  in 
a  land  of  hills  and  caves,  a  land  desolate  and 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  5 

inaccessible  to  those  less  purposeful  than  they 
themselves. 

There  is  now  a  railway  station  at  Port  Brad- 
don  in  the  Rhinns  of  Galloway,  but  sixty  years 
ago  it  was  an  unplanted  wilderness  all  along 
the  moors  of  its  storm-beaten  coast.  Here  and 
there  a  lonely  cottage  loomed  through  the  pre 
vailing  mists,  or  stood  out  bare  and  bald  in  the 
very  centre  of  some  moor  that  was  washed  to 
its  very  bones  by  the  rain-floods.  Or  down  on 
the  shingle  there  was,  perhaps,  a  little  colony 
of  fishers.  But  even  in  these  clustered  homes 
there  was  none  of  the  sound  and  stir  of  life ;  for 
they  were  pensioners  upon  the  ocean,  a  fickle 
and  cruel  master,  who  held  in  his  gift  death  as 
well  as  life.  To  the  Galloway  fishers  all  sea 
sons  had  a  serious  colour ;  and  their  intense 
piety  was  but  the  natural  attitude  of  thoughtful 
men,  dwelling  constantly  on  the  confines  of 
Eternity. 

Sixty  years  ago  there  was  a  little  fishing 
colony  of  this  kind  three  miles  south  of  Port 
Braddon,  and  beyond  it  to  the  extremity  of  the 
Mull  of  Galloway,  nothing  but  more  and  more 
isolated  settlements,  separated  by  lofty  rocks 
and  stony  inlets,  with  perhaps  here  and  there 


6  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

some  ancient  castle  or  well-sheltered  modern 
nobleman's  dwelling. 

This  colony  had  no  recognised  name,  but 
among  its  inhabitants  was  known  as  "Car- 
rick's,"  the  man  Andrew  Carrick  being  the 
proprietor  of  its  whole  six  cottages.  Carrick 
'himself  lived  on  a  house  built  on  the  summit 
of  the  bluff.  He  was  a  man  who  would  nat 
urally  have  chosen  the  highest  place  he  could 
find  for  a  dwelling  ;  and  destiny  had  given  him 
the  site  he  would  have  selected. 

Two  hundred  years  before  his  birth  there 
had  been  an  Andrew  Carrick,  who,  flying  for 
life  to  these  solitudes,  had  gradually  acquired 
an  affection  for  them  ;  and  he  had  built  the 
house  in  which  his  descendant  and  namesake 
lived.  It  was  of  gray  stone,  and  stood  upon 
the  cliff,  boldly  facing  the  restless  channel  in 
which  the  Solway  Firth  and  the  Irish  Sea  hold 
such  stormy  revels. 

But  it  was  founded  upon  a  rock,  and  built  of 
huge  blocks  of  granite;  and  its  deep,  narrow 
windows  and  thick  doors  defied  the  winds  that 
waged  nearly  constant  battle  against  its  walls. 
The  Lone  House  had  originally  contained  only 
the  "  but "  and  the  "  ben  "  common  to  Scotch 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  J 

cottages ;  but  Andrew's  father  had  built  a 
second  story,  with  dormer  windows  facing  the 
moor  and  the  sea.  Besides,  there  was  a  byre 
for  the  cattle,  and  a  small  sunk  cellar  used  as 
a  dairy  and  storeroom. 

The  Carricks  were  of  noble  strain,  and  had 
been  endowed  with  a  double  portion  of  that 
"  protesting "  spirit  inherent  in  their  race. 
They  had  followed  Wallace,  fought  with  Bruce, 
"protested"  with  Knox,  been  "out"  with  the 
Covenanters,  seceded  with  the  Relief  Kirk, 
and  at  the  time  my  tale  opens  the  man  Andrew 
Carrick  was  in  the  midst  of  a  soul-searching  in 
quiry  regarding  the  movement  of  Dr.  Chalmers 
for  the  glory  of  a  Free  Kirk,  with  a  most  decided 
natural  inclination  to  follow  the  great  doctor. 

Andrew  was  a  shoemaker,  and  he  sat  upon 
his  bench  mending  a  fisherman's  boot,  and 
arguing  the  question  conscientiously  out  with 
himself  ;  and  the  jerky  or  solemn  way  in  which 
he  pulled  his  waxed  thread  through  the  leather 
was  an  emphatic,  though  quite  unconscious, 
commentary  upon  his  thoughts.  He  had  a 
large,  stern  face,  with  that  remarkable  length 
of  jaw  from  ear  to  chin  which  is  a  leading  trait 
in  the  portraits  of  all  the  men  of  Covenanting 


8  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

note.  His  hair  was  long  and  black;  his  brow 
seamed  with  firm,  broad  wrinkles ;  his  large, 
grey  eyes  had  no  sparkle  in  them,  but  they 
gleamed  with  a  haughty  independence  of  virtu 
ous  honesty,  mingled  with  much  spiritual  pride. 

By  and  by  he  became  conscious  of  some 
sound  interrupting  the  even  flow  of  his 
thoughts.  He  lifted  his  head  and  looked 
towards  the  fireside.  On  a  creepie  before  it, 
and  softly  singing  to  herself,  sat  his  youngest 
daughter,  Jeannie.  She  had  been  combing 
wool,  and  her  lap  and  her  idle  hands  were  full 
of  the  fleecy  stuff.  He  listened  to  her  a 
moment,  and  then  he  asked,  — 

"What  is  it  you  are  singing  at  a',  Jeannie  ?  " 

"  Just  a  line  or  two  from  Bobbie  Burns. 
There  is  no  wrong  in  that,  father." 

"Is  there  naebody  to  put  a  word  in  your  lips 
but  that  graceless  ne'er  do  weel,  Jeannie  ? 
Think  shame  o'  yoursel',  my  lassie." 

"  I  was  just  humming  a  bit  from  '  Bonny 
Lesley ; '  "  and  she  looked  him  bravely  in  the 
face  and  gaily  sang,  — 

"  'To  see  her  is  to  love  her, 
And  love  but  her  forever.' 

There  is  nothing  ill  in  that,  father." 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  9 

"  And  there's  naething  good  in  it.  And 
whar  there  is  no  good,  thar  is  plenty  o' 
ill.  Forbye,  I'm  thrang  wi'  a  controversy 
that  taks  a'  the  grace  and  skill  God  has  gi'en 
me." 

Jeannie  smiled  at  him  brightly,  but  did  not 
speak ;  and  Andrew  softened  under  the  smile. 
Jeannie  Carrick  was  not  beautiful,  but  she  had 
that  charm  which  strictly  beautiful  faces  often 
want.  Her  eyes  fascinated  and  her  smile  com 
pelled.  Every  one  was  glad  to  please  Jeannie 
Carrick,  and  sorry  even  when  they  were  obliged 
lawfully  to  grieve  her.  So  in  a  very  few  min 
utes  Andrew  became  restless  in  the  silence  he 
had  commanded.  The  want  of  Jeannie's  song 
was  now  worse  than  its  sweet  low  murmur ; 
and  he  said  far  more  kindly,  — 

"  I  dinna  approve  o'  Robbie  Burns,  Jeannie, 
but  there  are  plenty  o'  songs  that  are  lawfu' 
and  not  a'thegither  devoid  o'  a  gracious  mem 
ory.  I'll  put  by  my  ain  work  and  my  ain 
thoughts  a  wee  and  you  can  sing  '  The  Cove 
nanter's  Lament,'  and  maybe  I'll  slip  a  word  or 
two  in  mysel',  dearie." 

Then  he  left  his  bench  and  sat  down  beside 
her  in  the  firelight,  and  after  a  moment's  silence 


10  THE  LONE   HOUSE. 

Jeannie  began  to  a  wild  pathetic  melody  the 
mournful  Lament :  — 

"  There's  nae  Covenant  noo,  Lassie  1 

There's  nae  Cov'nant  noo; 
The  solemn  League  and  Cov'nant, 

Is  a'  broken  through. 
There's  nae  Renwick  noo,  Lassie ! 

There's  nae  gude  Cargill, 
Nor  holy  Sabbath  preaching 

Upon  the  Martyrs'  hill ! 

The  last  four  lines  were  almost  like  a  sob, 
and  Andrew's  stern  face  reflected  the  senti 
ment,  as  if  he  personally  had  been  bitterly 
wronged  in  the  matter. 

"  The  Martyrs'  hill's  forsaken 

In  summer's  dusk  sae  calm; 
There's  nae  gathering  noo,  Lassie ! 

To  sing  the  evening  psalm ! 
But  the  Martyrs  sweetly  sleep,  Lassie, 

Aneath  the  waving  fern." 

Then  she  stood  up  and  looked  at  her  father, 
and  in  a  tone  of  triumph  finished  the  verse. 

"  But  the  Martyrs'  grave  will  rise,  Lassie, 
Above  the  warriors'  cairn!  " 

In  these  last  two  lines  Andrew  joined  his 
daughter ;  indeed,  it  seemed  to  be  an  under- 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  II 

stood  thing  between  them,  and  a  part  of  a 
programme  often  rehearsed. 

The  solemn  enthusiasm  of  the  singers  was 
not  a  thing  to  be  repeated  or  transferred  to 
some  other  subject,  and  Andrew  sat  with  his 
head  in  his  palms,  gazing  into  the  fire.  He 
was  enjoying  a  retrospective  reverie  which 
sufficed  him ;  for  his  soul  was  wandering  in  a 
part  of  Scotland  very  dear  to  him,  and  to  which 
he  made  frequent  pilgrimages  —  that  pastoral 
solitude  where  Pentland  falls  with  easy  slope 
into  the  Lothian  plain.  For  there  mighty 
deeds  had  been  done  for  the  faith  by  those  iron 
apostles  whom  God  sends  in  iron  times  to  make 
smooth  his  ways.  There  the  solemn  chant 
and  the  startling  war  cry  of  the  Covenanting 
Men  had  rung,  and  there  God's  saints  had  died 
for  faith  and  freedom,  and  gained  the  Martyr's 
Crown. 

As  he  sat  musing  thus,  Jeannie  drew  her 
little  wheel  to  his  side  and  began  to  spin. 
There  was  silence  in  the  houseplace,  but  a 
silence  full  of  meaning ;  peopled  with  the  dis 
tinct  thoughts  of  minds  which  had  not  learned 
the  modern  trick  of  generalisation ;  which 
were  not  crowded  with  events,  but  could  set 


12  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

each  one  in  space,  and  survey  it  from  every 
side.  ' 

Very  soon  a  heavy  shower  of  rain  smote  the 
window  smartly,  and  recalled  Andrew  to  the 
actualities  of  daily  existence. 

"  Whar  is  Ann  ? "  he  asked. 

"  She  will  be  in  the  byre,  no  doubt." 

"  The  kye  ought  to  be  milked  lang  ere  this 
hour." 

"  The  grass  is  green  now,  and  they  are  long 
in  coming  home." 

He  rose  in  a  hurry,  as  if  moved  by  some 
urgent  thought,  and  went  out.  In  a  few  min 
utes  Jeannie  heard  Ann  in  the  dairy  straining 
the  milk,  and  shortly  afterward  her  father 
returned  to  his  chair  and  resumed  his  medita 
tions.  But  they  were  evidently  of  a  very  dif 
ferent  character.  A  contemplation  on  the 
suffering  of  the  martyrs  imparted  to  his  dark 
solemn  face  the  rapt  enthusiasm  of  a  Jewish 
seer.  His  own  trials  gave  it  a  much  more 
earthly  expression.  Anger,  fear,  hatred,  a  sense 
of  wrong,  were  all  there,  but  with  nothing  that 
elevated  them  above  the  natural  feelings  of  the 
man.  To  ennoble  passion  all  self  must  be 
taken  out  of  it.  And  Andrew  Carrick's  anger 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  13 

that  night  was  full  of  selfish  considerations, 
though  he  gave  them  much  more  lofty  names. 

Jeannie  watched  him  in  silence.  She  had  in 
her  own  mind  a  glimmering  of  the  subject  which 
annoyed  him.  And  her  suspicions  were  justi 
fied  by  her  father's  impatience.  The  mere 
movement  of  the  dishes  in  the  dairy  appeared 
to  fret  him,  and  when  Ann  entered  the  room 
he  never  glanced  at  her.  She  smiled  faintly  at 
Jeannie,  and  began  to  prepare  the  evening  meal, 
making  as  she  moved  about  in  the  mingled 
twilight  and  firelight,  a  picture  well  worth  look 
ing  at.  She  was  fair,  and  finely  proportioned, 
with  a  round,  rosy  face,  and  good  features.  "  A 
pretty,  pleasant  girl "  would  have  been  any 
one's  first  impression  ;  but  to  a  closer  scrutiny, 
the  broad  forehead,  firm  chin,  and  clever,  capable 
looking  hands  revealed  a  far  nobler  character. 

She  set  the  round  table  before  the  fire,  and 
began  to  put  out  the  cups  and  plates  and  infuse 
the  tea.  Then  Jeannie  laid  by  her  wheel  and 
watched  her  sister  as  she  went  quickly  and 
quietly  to  and  fro  —  watched  her  with  interest, 
and  perhaps  also  with  a  shade  of  jealousy;  for 
there  was  an  unusual  brightness  in  Ann's  face, 
a  gleam  of  happiness  that  Jeannie  could  only 


14  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

read  in  one  way  —  Walter  Grahame  had  been 
in  the  byre  when  Ann  was  milking. 

The  meal  was  a  silent  one.  After  the 
"blessing  of  the  bread,"  few  words  were 
spoken.  But  when  it  was  over,  Ann  said  : 

"  Father,  I  have  a  paper  you  will  be  right 
glad  to  see.  Walter  Grahame  brought  it  from 
Wigton.  It  is  the  manifest  of  Dr.  Chalmers 
anent  the  Free  Kirk,  and  the  main  step  will 
have  to  be  taken  this  very  month." 

"Weel!  Weel!  Gie  me  the  paper.  The 
message  may  be  good,  though  the  messenger 
be  ill  to  bide." 

Then  Ann  put  it  into  his  hands.  It  was  but 
a  small  pamphlet,  but  it  had  moved  Scotland 
from  Shetland  to  Galloway,  and  it  stirred 
Andrew  Carrick's  heart  like  a  trumpet.  His 
swarthy  face  glowed,  his  eyes  kindled,  his 
fingers  twitched  the  potent  leaflets  as  if  he 
were  handling  a  sword.  It  took  him  but  a  very 
short  time  to  come  to  a  decision. 

"Lasses!"  he  cried,  "I  maun  awa'  to  Eclin- 
bro'.  What  for  will  I  be  sitting  quiet  in  my 
ain  house  when  the  Kirk  is  in  danger?  My 
forbear  and  namesake  was  among  the  saxty 
thousand  wha'  signed  the  Covenant  in  the 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  1 5 

auld  Greyfriars'  Kirkyard.  If  I  wasna  to  the 
forefront  now  I  wad  be  shamed  to  meet  him  in 
anither  warld.  I  sail  stand  by  Dr.  Chalmers 
and  the  Free  Kirk  to  the  last  breath  I  hae !  " 

"Thae  days  are  over,"  said  Ann  quietly. 
"King  nor  Kaiser  could  light  again  the  mar 
tyrs'  fires  in  the  Grassmarket." 

"  Weel,  I'll  stand  by  them  to  my  last  shilling 
then,  and  maybe  that  is  as  gude  a  test  as  the 
ither  ane." 

He  was  in  a  fever  of  religious  excitement, 
as  he  read  aloud  paragraphs  of  extraordinary 
power,  and  then  amplified  them. 

"There  will  be  a  searching  o'  consciences 
now,  lasses  !  "  he  said,  triumphantly  ;  "  and  the 
men  who  hae  had  their  sops  out  o'  the  dish  o' 
patronage  will  hae  the  question  to  answer  now. 
And  there's  many  that  will  not  thank  Dr.  Chal 
mers  for  putting  it  to  them  ;  but  they  are  men, 
and  I  dinna  doubt  but  they  will  speak  out  as 
they  should  do.  I'm  trusting  most  o'  them ; 
but  I'll  be  easier  in  my  mind  if  I  am  on  the 
vera  spot,  bairns ; "  and  he  looked  first  at  one, 
and  then  at  the  other,  with  a  singular  inde 
cision. 

Ann   stood   on  the  hearth  beside  him,  her 


1 6  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

knitting  in  her  hand,  and  her  whole  attitude 
full  of  interest.  Jeannie  sat  on  a  low  rush 
chair  opposite,  and  its  gay  patchwork  cushions 
made  an  effective  background  for  her  small, 
dark  head.  The  great  national  question  did 
not  trouble  Jeannie  much.  She  was  thinking 
of  the  unusual  lights  in  Ann's  eyes,  and  con 
necting  it  with  the  fact  that  Walter  Grahame 
had  been  talking  to  her. 

"  I  shall  ride  my  pony  into  Wigton.  I  can 
get  the  railway  from  thar  to  Edinbro'  ;  and  I 
shall  be  awa'  the  morn's  daylight.  You  will 
lock  the  doors  at  sundown,  Ann  ;  and  you  will 
let  neither  manbody  nor  womanbody  o'er  the 
threshold  till  I  win  hame  again." 

"I  canna  promise  all  that,  father  :  for  it  is  a 
sin  to  make  a  promise  that  you  arena  like  to 
keep.  I  shall  want  women  to  help  me  with  the 
spring  cleaning  and  bleaching;  and  there's 
many  an  occasion  that  might  bring  both  men 
and  women  folk  across  the  door-stone.  You  hae 
left  us  often  before,  and  we  aye  did  the  thing 
that  pleasured  you.  What  are  you  feared  for 
the  now?" 

"  I  am  feared  for  that  Grahame  o'  Port  Brad- 
don.  He  sail  not  speir  after  my  daughters. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  If 

And  he  sail  not  come  under  my  roof-tree,  for 
he  is  of  an  evil  seed.  Mind  what  I  say ! " 

"  He  canna  help  his  name,  father.  Because 
there  was  one  devil  among  the  Grahames,  are 
none  of  them  to  be  good  ?  " 

"  I'll  no  leemit  the  possibility,  Ann.  A  bot 
tle  may  be  marked  '  Poison '  and  there  may  be 
no  poison  in  it ;  but  a  wise  body  will  just  tak' 
it  at  its  name,  and  not  be  trying  expeeriments 
wi'  it.  That  is  enou'  o'  Grahame.  He  isna 
for  either  o'  you,  lasses.  I  wad  stop  the  join 
ing  o'  hands  in  sic  a  bridal — yes,  I  would  — 
though  I  called  death  himsel'  in,  to  strike 
them  apart.  You'll  not  daur  to  think  o'  Wal 
ter  Grahame  ;  neither  o'  you  !  " 

In  Jeannie's  downcast  eyes  there  was  noth 
ing  to  intimate  any  resistance  to  Andrew's 
positive  command ;  but  Ann's  face  and  atti 
tude  spoke  dissent  and  protestation.  Andrew 
supposed  that,  as  a  matter  of  course,  his  in 
junction,  "  You'll  not  daur  to  think  o'  Walter 
Grahame,"  settled  the  question  ;  but  an  hour 
afterward  the  girls  resumed  the  subject  in 
their  own  room. 

Jeannie  was  the  first  to  speak.  "  Do  you 
think  father  is  right  about  Walter  Grahame?" 
she  asked  her  sister. 


1 8  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

"  I  am  sure  he  is  right  for  Andrew  Carrick  ; 
but  I  am  not  sure  if  he  is  right  for  Ann 
Carrick." 

"  And  what  think  you  of  Walter  ?  " 

"  I  think  no  harm  of  the  lad." 

"  What  did  father  say  to  him  in  the  byre  ? " 

"  He  said,  '  Master  Grahame,  my  daughters 
are  na  for  your  company.  And  the  bit  o' 
Scotland  I  own  isna  for  your  feet  to  tread. 
And  I'll  be  plain  with  you,'  he  went  on,  '  and 
bid  you  keep  to  your  ain  place  and  your  ain 
folk.'  " 

"And  what  answer  made  Walter  to  that ?" 

"  He  spoke  very  civil-like.  He  said,  '  I  am 
sorry  you  dinna  like  me,  Master  Carrick,  and 
I  dinna  ken  what  I  have  done  to  anger  you.1  " 

"And  what  could  father  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  He  said,  '  You'll  be  going,  Sir.  And  if 
God  please  to  do  so,  he'll  give  you  a  good 
night ;  but  you  will  keep  in  mind  that  you 
arena  wanted  here  again  —  not  while  me  and 
mine  are  in  the  Lone  House.'  " 

"  Poor  Walter  !  And  he  so  blythe  and  bon- 
nie  and  kind-hearted.  It  was  a  black  affront  to 
Walter.  Whatna  for  is  father  so  set  against 
the  Grahames  ? " 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  19 

"  I  am  sure  he  has  a  '  because  '  of  his  own, 
and  we  are  bound  to  take  heed  to  it." 

"  Father  thinks  o'  siller  more  than  love.  I 
can  see  that  he  is  aye  pleased  when  Ringan 
Fullerton  speaks  to  me,  or  comes  to  my  side. 
Ringan  hasna  a  single  merit  but  a  bank  book. 
I'll  not  marry  for  money !  Would  you,  Nannie  ?" 

"  There's  no  use,  Jeannie,  in  setting  up  the 
golden  image  of  our  own  opinions.  If  they 
arena  like  father's  opinions,  we  shall  just  re 
quire  to  give  them  up." 

"  Eh,  Nannie !  You  have  a  lot  o'  good 
sense  —  on  your  tongue.  But  if  you  wanted 
to  marry  Walter  ?  " 

"  I  don't  want  to  marry  Walter.  And  after 
father's  words  anent  such  marriage,  I  would 
think  myself  daft  to  give  Walter  another 
thought.  As  for  Ringan  Fullerton,  he  is  a 
person  of  some  weight  in  the  world,  and  you 
might  do  worse  than  think  o'  him." 

"I  might  do  a  deal  better." 

"  That  is  a  question  neither  you  nor  I,  nor 
yet  the  General  Assembly,  can  find  an  answer 
to.  Marriage  is  simply  unaccountable." 

"  But  for  a'  that  father  says,  I  think  Walter 
is  a  very  nice  young  man." 


2O  THE   LONE   HOUSE. 

"We  had  best  keep  clear  of  him.  He  will 
not  now  be  an  improving  friend  for  either  of 
us,  Jeannie.  We  have  got  our  orders,  and  the 
road  of  disobedience  is  an  ill  road.  The  de'il 
is  aye  on  it,  and  on  all  roads  leading  to  it ;  and 
we  be  to  take  care  o'  the  de'il,  Jeannie." 

"  I  dinna  take  any  care  for  him.  He's  weel 
able  to  take  care  o'  himself,  and  his  ain  side." 

"You  know  what  I  mean,  Jeannie.  What 
for  are  you  playing  with  my  words ;  right  is 
right,  in  the  de'il's  teeth,  and  father  is  right, 
and  no  doubt  about  it !  But  I  must  be  up 
early  the  morn,  and  am  requiring  to  sleep 
now ;  so  good  night  to  you,  Jeannie,  and  good 
dreams." 

"  Of  Walter  Grahame  ? "  queried  Jeannie 
with  a  mocking  laugh,  as  Ann  put  out  the 
light,  and  both  girls  with  little  sighs  of  sleep- 
content,  laid  their  fair  heads  down  upon  their 
pillows. 


CHAPTER  II. 

Truth  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  say 
When  high-throned  falsehoods  rule  the  day : 
But  He  hath  lent  it  voice  :  and  lo ! 
From  heart  to  heart  the  fire  shall  go. 

BLACK  IE. 

ANDREW  did  not  think  it  at  all  necessary 
•*»  to  speak  to  his  daughters  in  the  morning 
about  Walter  Grahame.  Obedience  was  the 
natural  result  of  a  parent's  injunction  to  chil 
dren,  and  the  law  was,  in  his  opinion,  as  firmly 
settled  as  any  law  could  be.  There  might  be 
law-breakers,  but  he  had  no  more  fear  of  Ann 
and  Jeannie  Carrick  breaking  the  fifth  com 
mandment  than  he  had  of  their  breaking  the 
sixth. 

Neither  did  the  two  girls  contemplate  such  a 
sin.  The  temptation  to  commit  it  had  not  yet 
been  made  to  seem  reasonable  to  the  heart  of 
either  girl.  And  if  they  had  been  questioned 
on  the  subject,  they  would  both  have  unhesi 
tatingly  declared  that  their  father's  command 
was  just  and  imperative,  and  far  beyond  their 

21 


22  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

breaking.  Not  until  a  garment  is  washed,  do 
we  know  whether  it  will  shrink  in  the  wetting 
or  not ;  and  a  character  must  be  tested  by 
temptation,  ere  we  can  safely  say  whether  it 
may  be  trusted  or  not. 

Very  early  in  the  morning,  Andrew  rose  and 
called  his  daughters.  He  hurried  them  in  the 
preparation  of  the  breakfast,  but  he  took  unusual 
care  and  deliberation  about  the  morning  "  exer 
cise."  He  did  the  latter  as  a  mortification  and 
reproof  to  the  natural  man,  which  was  impa 
tient  of  any  detention.  Therefore  he  read  a 
double  portion  of  The  Word,  and  sang  a  long 
Psalm,  and  prayed  for  his  household  and  him 
self,  for  the  heathen,  and  the  Kirk  in  her  sore 
distress,  and  for  the  world  in  general,  with  a 
particularity  that  it  is  reasonable  to  suppose 
was  extremely  tedious  to  every  one  present  but 
Andrew  Carrick. 

Really  he  had  no  special  anxiety  about  his 
daughters.  His  journey  as  far  as  Edinburgh 
was  not  an  extraordinary  affair.  He  was  accus 
tomed  to  leave  them  at  intervals  on  matters 
pertaining  to  his  business  —  sometimes  to  drive 
a  few  cattle  into  Dumfries  market  for  sale, 
sometimes  to  go  even  as  far  as  Glasgow,  to  buy 


THE   LONE  HOUSE.  2$ 

the  leather  he  required  for  his  trade  as  a  shoe 
maker. 

And  Ann  and  Jeannie  Carrick  were  not 
troubled  by  such  absences,  indeed,  they  rather 
anticipated  them  with  a  very  natural  girlish 
expectation.  They  were  pleasant  household 
intervals,  which  were  always  taken  advantage 
of,  as  offering  opportunities  for  having  a  dress 
maker  in  the  house ;  or  for  washing  and 
bleaching  the  napery  ;  or  for  the  turmoil  of 
a  thorough  house  cleaning ;  or  for  any  other 
domestic  event  when  women  find  menfolk 
decidedly  in  the  way. 

This  spring  Ann  had  been  anxiously  waiting 
for  her  father  to  "  take  a  wee  journey,"  that 
she  might  have  her  hands  more  at  liberty  for 
the  annual  house  cleaning  and  bleaching.  And 
as  Andrew  vwas  aware  of  her  domestic  inten 
tions,  he  was  enabled  to  add  to  his  other  sources 
of  satisfaction  the  knowledge  that  he  was  doing 
a  thing  very  agreeable  to  his  daughters,  and 
also  very  necessary  for  the  welfare  of  the  house 
and  its  plenishing. 

There  was,  therefore,  no  pretence  of  anything 
but  pleasure  in  his  restrained  "farewell."  He 
held  Ann's  hand  a  minute  as  he  told  her  again, 


24  THE  LOATE  HOUSE. 

"  to  draw  all  the  bolts  well  at  night,"  and  when 
he  was  in  the  saddle  he  said  kindly,  "  God  keep 
you  baith,  lasses,  till  I  win  hame  ance  mair  !" 
But  it  never  entered  his  mind  to  give  them  a 
kiss  or  a  tender  word,  though  as  he  commended 
them  to  God's  care,  he  did  touch  Jeannie's 
head  softly,  and  his  last  look  was  into  her  bon- 
nie  bright  face.  Then  he  trotted  dourly  away 
over  the  moor.  He  never  turned  his  head 
once,  and  his  daughters  never  expected  him  to 
do  anything  so  purposeless.  They  watched 
him  for  a  short  time,  and  then  went  into  the 
house-place  and  sat  down. 

"  We  must  go  to  work  with  a  will,  Jeannie," 
said  Ann,  looking  thoughtfully  around.  "  No 
one  can  tell  what  may  send  father  home,  or 
keep  him  away,  and  we  be  to  have  a'  things  put 
in  order,  while  there's  no  man-body  round  to 
worry,  because  'folks  can't  make  things  clean 
without  mair  dirt  and  disorder  than  they  take 
away' — that  is  aye  father's  word  about  a 
cleaning.  Suppose  you  go  down  to  the  cot 
tages  for  a  woman  to  help  me  in  the  house,  and 
I'll  be  making  a'  things  ready  for  her." 

"Ay  ;  I'll  like  to  do  that,  Nannie,"  answered 
Jeannie. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  2$ 

"  Weel,  throw  your  plaid  o'er  your  nead,  and 
be  off,  then.  And  be  sure  to  hurry  a  wee, 
Jeannie,  for  there  is  mair  work  before  me  than 
I  can  set  my  face  to,  unless  a'  things  go  well 
with  me." 

The  sun  was  shining  brightly,  though  the 
tossing  sea  looked  green  and  cold,  but  in  the 
fresh  salt  air  Jeannie  soon  forgot  Ann's  injunc 
tion  to  "  hurry."  It  was  an  easy  thing  to 
forget,  when  the  merry  wind  was  blowing  her 
to  and  fro,  and  the  sunshine  was  warm  and 
bright ;  and  in  the  sheltered  corners  there  were 
bits  of  green  fern,  and  palish  flowers  to  be 
found.  It  seemed  to  Jeannie  that  just  to  be 
free  and  out-of-doors  in  such  lovely  weather 
was  a  delight. 

Therefore,  when  she  returned  to  the  Lone 
House,  she  was  very  happy  to  see  that  Ann 
had  brought  out  from  the  great  oak  kists  all 
the  fine  linen  of  her  grandmother's  and  mother's 
spinning  and  weaving.  For  the  yearly  bleach 
ing  of  this  treasure  was  generally  confided  to 
Jeannie.  It  was  the  one  household  duty  that 
she  thoroughly  enjoyed.  Indeed,  she  con 
sidered  it  a  kind  of  holiday  to  carry  the  fine 
webs  to  the  hill  pasture,  where  there  was  a 


26  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

spring  of  clear  crystal  water,  and  where  the 
grass  was  already  long  and  green. 

Ann  helped  her  with  the  burden  to  and  fro, 
but  all  day  long  Jeannie  remained  alone  on  the 
breezy  hillside  with  her  snowy  webs  of  home 
spun  linen ;  watering  them  in  the  sunshine, 
and  turning  them  in  the  fresh  winds,  and 
spending  the  intervals  of  time  in  eating  and 
reading,  or  in  chatting  with  any  neighbour  who 
happened  to  pass  that  way. 

It  was  in  the  second  day  that,  either  pur 
posely  or  by  accident,  Walter  Grahame  passed. 
Now,  Walter  had  long  hesitated  between  the 
two  pretty  Carrick  girls  ;  for  he  always  thought 
the  one  present  the  prettier  one.  And  on  this 
afternoon  as  he  watched  Jeannie  among  her 
linens  and  damasks,  he  decided  that  Jeannie 
Carrick  was  the  fairest,  the  gayest,  and  most 
lovable  woman  he  had  ever  seen.  Then  he  sat 
down  by  her  side  on  the  grass,  and  told  her  so. 
He  had  never  heard  of  Gessner,  and  he  did  not 
know  what  an  idyllic  picture  was ;  but  he  felt 
the  spell  which  he  could  not  describe — the 
season  with  its  sunshine  and  breezes,  and  the 
lovely  maiden  with  her  watering  can  among  the 
snowy  blowing  linen,  made  a  picture  whose 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  2/ 

charm  he  had  neither  the  power  nor  the  in 
clination  to  resist. 

And  as  Walter  Grahame  was  young,  hand 
some,  and  light-hearted,  and  Jeannie  precisely 
in  the  mood  to  have  her  imagination  and  her 
feelings  touched,  love  grew  apace  in  that 
lonely,  grassy  wilderness,  and  the  lovers  came 
speedily  to  an  understanding.  They  loved  — 
or  they  thought  they  loved  —  the  latter  senti 
ment  being  the  more  dangerous  of  the  two  con 
ditions —  and  then  they  began  to  invest  their 
position  with  all  the  romantic  accidents  they 
could  evolve  or  invent,  from  their  parentage 
and  family  prejudices.  And  thus  their  con 
scious  disobedience,  and  the  secrecy  it  de 
manded,  became  to  these  foolish  young  people 
the  very  atmosphere  of  their  love  and  lives. 

Of  this  state  of  affairs  Ann  had  not  the 
slightest  suspicion.  Women  with  the  yearly 
house-cleaning  on  their  minds  and  hands  are 
not  apt  to  think  of  love-making,  unless  it  is  put 
palpably  before  them.  And  hitherto  there  had 
been  no  secrets  between  the  sisters.  Even 
their  little  nascent  love  dreams  had  been 
ever  frankly  discussed  together.  Therefore, 
as  Jeannie  never  told  her  sister  that  Walter 


28  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

Grahame  came  daily  to  the  bleaching,  Ann 
never  suspected  such  a  thing.  Had  she  done 
so,  Ann  would  certainly  have  put  a  stop  to  the 
bleaching,  for  her  nature  was  clear  as  crystal, 
she  despised  all  secrets  and  subterfuges,  and 
was  essentially  a  brave  girl. 

On  the  contrary,  Jeannie  was  a  coward,  and 
Nature  had  armed  her  with  all  the  stealthy  arts 
she  gives  to  weak  natures.  As  soon  as  Walter 
joined  her  on  the  hillside,  Jeannie  resolved  to 
"  keep  her  ain  counsel.  It  will  be  a  bit  of 
pleasuring  to  me,"  she  thought,  "just  to  have 
Walter  make  the  long  days  short.  And  if 
nothing  comes  of  it  but  the  hour's  daffing, 
there  is  nobody  hurt ;  and  so  nobody  need  to 
be  the  wiser  but  our  two  selves." 

In  this  decision  she  put  her  father's  com 
mand  clean  behind  her  consciousness.  "  Father 
is  that  bigoted  anent  the  Grahames,  and  so 
he's  no  judge  o'  them,"  she  thought.  "  Folk  all 
speak  weel  o'  poor  Walter,  and  whatna  for 
should  I  be  ill  to  him,  just  because  his  forbears 
didna  think  as  the  Carricks  thought  ?  Father 
will  never  hear  tell  o'  me  and  Walter ;  and 
what  the  heart  doesna  ken  it  doesna  grieve  for. 
And  I'll  no  tell  Nannie,  either;  what  for  should 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  29 

I  ?  Nannie  liked  Walter  Grahame  once.  I'm 
not  believing  father's  '  shall  not '  cured  her 
liking.  No,  I'll  not  tell  Nannie  ! " 

The  truth  was  that  Jeannie  was  in  her  heart 
a  little  jealous  of  her  sister.  She  had  once 
heard  Walter  Grahame  say,  "  Ann  Carrick  is  a 
beauty !  "  and  she  judged  Ann's  heart  by  her 
own,  and  feared  she  might  yet  have  the  power 
to  take  her  lover  from  her.  She  was  also  quite 
sure  that  Ann  would  peremptorily  oppose  any 
clandestine  intercourse  with  Grahame  —  would, 
indeed,  oppose  any  intercourse  at  all  so  con 
trary  to  her  father's  desires  ;  and  Jeannie  could 
not  bear  to  give  Walter  up.  He  was  her  first 
real  lover,  and  his  beauty  and  ready  tongue 
and  loving  ways  had  quite  won  her  heart.  It 
was  easier  to  disobey  her  father  and  deceive 
her  sister  than  to  relinquish  her  lover. 

Besides,  Walter  himself  urged  her  to  secrecy. 
To  be  slyly  wooing  the  old  Covenanter's  daugh 
ter  upon  his  own  hillside,  and  against  his 
express  commands,,  was  a  very  delightful  bit  of 
retaliation  ;  and  though  Grahame  told  himself 
that  he  really  loved  Jeannie  Carrick,  and  was 
resolved  to  make  her  his  wife,  yet  he  did  feel 
the  slight  danger  of  discovery  to  be  a  piquant 


3<D  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

spice  to  his  wooing,  and  the  gathering  of  the 
fruit  that  was  forbidden  him  to  be  irresistible, 
the  more  so  because  of  its  interdiction.  Alas  ! 
neither  of  the  two  had  yet  learned  that  the 
forbidden  fruit  is  ever  a  bitter  fruit. 

So  the  secret  intercourse  continued  daily 
until  the  bleaching  was  over,  and  then  Jeannie 
found  plenty  of  errands  down  to  the  little  fish 
ing  settlement  on  the  seashore,  and  Walter  met 
her  there;  and  the  very  contradictions  that 
sometimes  brought  disappointment  only  added 
interest  to  their  foolish  entanglement,  and 
made  them  both  more  determined  to  stand  by 
each  other,  no  matter  who  might  come  between 
them. 

For  Jeannie  had  not  hesitated  to  tell  her 
lover  that  her  father  had  threatened  to  call 
Death  to  strike  their  hands  asunder  if  it  should 
be  necessary  to  part  them  ;  and  it  is  idle  to 
pretend  that  Walter's  stubborn  determination 
to  marry  Jeannie  Carrick  was  not  intensified 
by  the  knowledge  that  he  would  be  "paying 
the  old  man  back  for  his  impertinence  in  order 
ing  him  to  keep  away  from  his  daughters  and 
off  his  land." 

"  Weel,  weel,  Jeannie !  "  he  said  one  after- 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  31 

noon,  as  they  were  making  mountains  for  their 
love  to  o'erleap,  "  Weel,  Weel !  if  I  canna  have 
one  o'  Andrew  Carrick's  daughters  in  his  own 
house,  I  must  take  her  wherever  I  can  get 
her.  My  father,  too,  was  speaking  in  a  very 
ill-natured  way  yestreen  about  you  and  me. 
He  said  he  would  ne'er  see  my  face  again,  or 
gie  me  another  bawbee,  if  I  wed  a  Carrick  lass  ; 
and  you  ken  weel  I'll  wed  none  but  Jeannie 
Carrick." 

"  And  what  then  will  we  do,  Walter  ?  We 
canna  bide  in  Port  Braddon  wi'  all  our  ain  folk 
against  us." 

"  That  is  so.  But  I  am  not  daft  to  bide  in 
Port  Braddon.  There  is  land  enough,  and  gold 
enough,  beyond  Scotch  seas ;  and  I'm  minded 
with  all  my  heart  to  see  what  the  other  side  of 
the  world  is  like.  Wonderfu'  things  are  said 
o'  Australia ;  and  there's  India  itsel',  and  Can 
ada.  Would  you  be  feared  to  go  with  me, 
Jeannie  ? " 

And  of  course  Jeannie  said  that  any  land, 
east  or  west,  or  north  or  south,  was  the  land 
for  her  if  only  Walter  Grahame  took  her  there. 

This  secret  wooing  went  on  for  three  weeks 
and  then  Andrew  Carrick  returned  from  Edin- 


32  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

burgh.  He  came  back  with  all  the  pride  of  a 
victor.  If  he  had  been  accompanied  by  "  The 
Highland  Host  —  an  army  with  Kirk  ban 
ners  "  —  he  could  not  have  been  more  exultant. 
His  first  words  to  his  daughters  were,  "  Lasses, 
we  have  triumphed  gloriously."  His  very  step 
and  bearing  were  changed.  He  walked  proudly 
to  his  own  chair  on  the  hearthstone,  and  looked 
with  satisfaction  all  around  —  on  the  spotless 
furnishings  of  the  room,  the  shining  windows, 
the  snow-white  curtains,  the  pots  full  of  fuch 
sia  bells,  and  the  neat  table  with  its  homely, 
plenteous  meal. 

"  I  have  been  entertained  by  my  cousin,  the 
Rev.  Cosmo  Carrick,"  he  said ;  "  well  enter 
tained  in  his  big  braw  manse,  lasses.  But  oh  ! 
the  comfort  o'  this  sweet  clean  houseplace,  and 
the  bite  and  the  sup  at  my  ain  fireside ! " 

"  But  Edinburgh  is  a  grand  city,  father,  is  it 
not  ?  "  asked  Jeannie. 

"'Tis  a  wonderful,  wonderful  city,  my  little 
lassie,  and  I  hae  seen  a'  the  wonderfuls  in  it. 
I  hae  seen  the  Greyfriars'  kirk,  and  the  Grass- 
market.  I  hae  seen  John  Knox's  house  and 
pulpit,  and  I  hae  heard  the  great  Dr.  Chal 
mers  preach.  Indeed,  I  hae  drunk  o'  the  cup 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  33 

o*  salvation  till  my  heart  is  full  and  running 
over." 

"  And  yet  you  are  glad  to  win  hame  again  ? " 
queried  Ann,  as  her  eyes  followed  her  father's 
eyes  wandering  around  the  pleasant  room. 

"  East  or  west,  hame  is  best,  Ann.  And 
when  you  hae  been  crowded  up  wi'  thousands, 
and  tens  of  thousands  of  ither  people  for  three 
weeks,  then  you  feel  the  glory  of  having  nae 
neighbours  but  the  wide  moorland,  and  the 
wide  ocean ; "  and  so,  saying  a  fervent  word 
or  two  of  gratitude,  he  pushed  aside  his  cup 
and  plate,  and  walked  to  the  open  door  and 
looked  over  the  moor  and  the  ocean,  as  if  he 
would  fill  his  heart  with  their  lonely  strength 
and  comfort. 

Anon  he  began  to  walk  restlessly  about  the 
room  and  to  say  as  he  did  so,  "  I'm  thankf u'  I 
went  to  Edinbro' ;  it  has  been  a  grand  time ; 
and  I  must  tell  you  baith  what  good  bread  I 
found  to  eat ;  bread  that  I  cast  on  the  waters 
mair  than  ten  years  syne.  For  when  my 
young  cousin,  Cosmo  Carrick,  wanted  to  enter 
the  Divinity  Classes  of  St.  Andrew's  College, 
and  hadna  the  necessary  siller,  I  was  mair  than 
glad  to  let  him  hae  the  sum  needed.  For  as 


34  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

the  Lord  hadna  gi'en  me  a  son  to  stand  before 
him,  I  thought  it  a  great  honour  and  pleasure 
to  help  one  o'  my  ain  name  into  the  pulpit." 

"  I  never  mind  of  seeing  him  here,"  said 
Ann. 

"  He  never  was  here.  I  never  saw  the  face 
of  him  before.  But  when  I  told  him  who  I 
was,  he  met  me  wi'  a  vera  pleasant  sense  o' 
his  obligations.  He  made  much  o'  me,  lasses  ; 
had  he  been  my  ain  son,  he  couldna  have 
treated  me  wi'  mair  liking  and  consideration. 
So  you  see  that  is  the  outcome  of  a  kindness 
done  to  a  good  man,  and  for  a  good  purpose. 
I'm  no  saying  that  kindnnss  done  to  a  wicked 
man  would  hae  had  the  same  blessing." 

"Was  he  wi'  Dr.  Chalmers  for  a  Free 
Kirk?" 

"  Whar  else  at  all  would  a  Carrick  be  ? 
Where  else  have  all  the  Carricks  been  but  in 
the  fore-front  of  any  Kirk  Protestation  ?  And 
wherever  he  went,  I  went  with  him ;  so  I  may 
say  I  have  been  in  the  vera  van  o'  the  great 
battle." 

"  And  whatever  are  they  fighting  about  now, 
father  ?  "  asked  Jeannie  a  little  pettishly.  She 
was  anxious  to  hear  of  the  great  city,  and  of 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  35 

this  new  cousin,  Cosmo  Carrick ;  but  she  un 
derstood  very  well,  that  until  the  Kirk  business 
was  talked  out,  she  would  get  little  satisfaction 
on  inferior  subjects.  So  she  asked  the  leading 
question  which  she  expected  would  settle  the 
matter. 

"  What  are  they  fighting  about,  Jeannie  ? 
Why,  they  are  fighting  for  the  rights  of  the 
Kirk  —  for  the  right  of  every  kirk  to  choose 
its  ain  minister  and  not  to  have  one  forced 
upon  it,  though  the  Court  o'  Session  and  the 
House  o'  Lords  the  sel'  o'  them  baith,  should 
do  the  forcing." 

"  What  for  is  the  House  o'  Lords  troubling 
itsel'  wi'  the  Scotch  Kirk  ?  Is  it  about  that 
bit  parish  o'  Auchterarder  all  this  pother  is 
made  ?  And  when  the  House  of  Lords  settles 
the  government  of  the  whole  kingdom,  whatna 
for  cannot  it  settle  the  business  of  a  little 
country  kirk?" 

Jeannie  asked  this  question  with  an  assump 
tion  of  fair  and  honest  inquiry,  that  for  a 
moment  astonished  her  father  and  sister. 
Neither  of  them  knew  that  it  was  one  of 
Walter  Grahame's  arguments  the  girl  was 
using ;  and  Andrew  was  puzzled  that  "  wee 


36  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

Jeannie"  should  have  considered  the  subject 
even  in  an  adverse  way.  So  he  answered  her 
without  the  anger  she  had  almost  pleased  her 
self  with  the  thought  of  provoking. 

"  You  are  a  foolish  lass,  Jeannie,  and  you 
hae  only  looked  on  one  side  o'  the  question  ; 
which  is  the  way  wi'  women-folk.  Naebody 
minds  the  Ceevil  Power  interfering  wi'  the 
temporal  matters  o'  the  Kirk  ;  but  kings,  nor 
queens,  nor  parliaments  a'  thegither,  have  any 
power  at  all  to  compel  a  Kirk  in  spiritual  mat 
ters.  That  is  the  great  difference.  And  when 
the  Ceevil  Power  wants  to  put  such  ministers 
as  it  thinks  right  o'er  the  kirks,  then  it  is  going 
too  far.  Every  kirk  in  Scotland  has  the  right 
to  choose  its  ain  minister;  and  Scotland  will 
see  to  it  that  nane  meddle  with  that  right." 

"  The  Scotch  folk  are  aye  quarrelling  about 
the  Kirk  ; "  said  Ann.  "  I  have  heard  you  talk 
ing  anent  this  vera  subject,  father,  a'  my  life 
long,  I  think." 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  have,  Ann.  Patronage 
in  Kirk  matters  is  just  the  one  thing  Scotland 
will  na  endure.  And  what  for  should  we  gie 
the  honour  due  to  Christ,  to  any  Ceevil  Power  ? 
We  will  never  do  it  —  not  while  Scotland 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  37 

stands  where  she  did,  and  does  !  Once,  lasses, 
there  was  a  bit  laddie  shot  in  the  breast  while  he 
was  fighting  under  Napoleon,  and  he  said  to  the 
surgeon  who  was  looking  for  the  bullet,  'Cut 
an  inch  deeper,  Doctor,  and  you  will  find  the 
Emperor.'  Well,  then,  this  vera  controversy 
has  cut  that  inch  deeper  into  the  heart  of  Scot 
land,  and  found  there  its  Spiritual  King,  Christ 
Jesus!" 

"  Weel,  it  is  a  great  matter  in  temporal  things 
too,"  said  Jeannie.  "  If  all  be  true  I  was  hear 
ing  say,  the  Kirk  will  be  reduced  to  very 
beggary.  Her  ministers,  her  missionaries,  her 
professors  and  the  like,  will  be  homeless  and 
without  a  penny  bit." 

"  And  what  if  they  are  ?  And  what  if  they 
are,  Jeannie  Carrick?"  asked  Andrew  with 
some  passion.  "  They  hae  their  integrity. 
And  I  thank  God  I  hae  lived  to  see  so  many 
good,  brave  men  give  up  everything,  and  trust 
ing  to  his  care,  stand  up  for  his  honour.  I 
think  better  o'  ministers,  and  better  o'  men, 
than  I  ever  did  before." 

"  I  am  right  glad  you  were  present,  father." 

"  You  may  weel  be  that,  Ann  Carrick.  You 
may  weel  be  right  glad.  If  auld  Andrew  Car- 


38  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

rick,  my  forbear,  should  meet  me  in  another 
warld,  and  tell  o'  the  day  when  he  signed  the 
great  National  Covenant,  I  hae  now  quite  as 
grand  a  story  to  tell  o'  my  ain.  The  braw  city 
o'  Edinbro'  has  seen  many  stirring  sights, 
lasses,  but  never  one  mair  stirring  than  this 
Holy  Convocation.  He  was  a  poor  meeserable 
man  wha  did  not  forget  his  ain  business  during 
it.  I  think  some  good  folk  forgot  to  eat  or 
sleep.  And  the  fine  streets  were  that  full  o' 
gowned  ministers,  and  solemn  elders,  that  the 
military  wi'  all  their  braws  and  tartans,  and 
feathers  and  the  like,  were  just  nobodies  !  " 
"And  you  saw  everything,  then,  father?" 
"  Ay,  did  I.  I  bought  mysel'  a  suit  o'  the 
best  black  braidcloth,  and  I  linket  on  to  my 
cousin's  arm,  and  he  said  there  wasna  a  minis 
ter  there  that  looked  mair  like  the  sacred  office. 
And  we  went  thegither  to  Holyrood  palace,  and 
I  saw  the  Marquis  o'  Bute  take  his  seat  there 
for  Her  Majesty's  sel'.  And  while  he  was 
talking  anent  the  law  and  such  like,  I  could 
hear  the  sound  o'  murmur  through  the  High 
land  Host  —  the  cry  they  had  marched  through 
Edinbro'  wi'  —  The  Standards  o'  The  Kirk! 
The  Standards  o  The  Kirk!  The  Standards  o' 


THE   LONE  HOUSE.  39 

The  Kirk  are  in  Danger! '  And  I  kent  weel 
the  marquis  was  talking  to  little  purpose,  and 
as  my  thoughts  burned  in  me,  a  strange  thing 
happened  —  a  big  painting  o'  King  William  the 
Third  which  was  hanging  opposite  to  Lord 
Bute  fell  to  the  floor  wi'  a  crash  that  gave 
everybody  a  stun.  Then  some  one  in  the 
crowd  cried  out,  '  Thar  goes  the  Revolutionary 
Settlement ! '  and  the  words  were  like  the 
words  of  a  prophet,  and  there  was  a  great 
silence,  and  then  a  stir,  and  Lord  Bute  rose 
up  and  went  away  with  a  grand  march  o'  chari 
ots  and  horsemen." 

"  And  what  then,  father  ?  " 

"I  went  with  my  cousin  Cosmo  to  the 
Assembly  Hall,  and  it  was  that  crowded,  you 
couldna  hae  stood  anither  man  in  it,  and  when 
Lord  Bute  entered  every  ane  rose  to  their  feet, 
for  you  ken  he  was  sitting  there  for  the  Queen's 
sel'!" 

"  You  sai,_  that  you  would  not  honour  king 
or  queen  if  they  stood  in  God's  way,  father," 
said  Jeannie.  "  I  am  for  giving  Caesar  his  ain, 
as  lang  as  Caesar  keeps  his  hand  off  the  Kirk 
and  the  Covenant  therewith  "  —  continued 
Andrew  without  further  notice  of  Jeannie's 


4O  THE   LONE  HOUSE. 

interruption.  "  So  I  stood  up  with  the  rest, 
being  in  favour  o'  doing  a'  things  decently  and 
in  order.  For  though  Scotchman  are  bound 
to  have  their  ain  way,  when  their  way  is  the 
right  way,  yet  they  are  a'  gentlemen,  and  not 
red-bonnetted  cut-throats,  without  respect  of 
persons  or  office." 

"  Was  Dr.  Chalmers  to  the  fore-front,  as  you 
expected,  father  ? " 

"  Ay,  was  he !  When  the  moderator  had 
spoke  for  the  Kirk — God  bless  her!  —  when 
he  had  told  up  what  wrongs  she  has  suffered, 
and  what  danger  she  was  in,  he  advised  all  that 
were  for  a  Free  Kirk  to  withdraw.  But  he  lost 
neither  his  head  nor  his  good  manners,  for  he 
bowed  to  Lord  Bute  —  wha  I  must  say  looked 
as  if  he  didna  care  a  pin  about  the  Scotch 
Kirk  —  and  then  he  left  his  seat,  and  went 
to  the  aisle  leading  to  the  door ;  and  Dr. 
Chalmers  rose  next,  then  Campbell  o'  Menzie, 
and  Dr.  Gordon,  and  Dr.  Macfarlane,  and  then 
I  kenna  wha  next  —  man  after  man,  row  after 
row,  till  there  was  scarce  a  man  left.  But  God 
kens  them  a'.  Oh,  lasses !  my  heart  dirls 
yet  at  the  thought  of  it !  And  I  am  free  to 
confess  that,  when  I  saw  my  cousin,  Cosmo 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  4! 

Carrick,  rise  and  go  out  wi'  the  rest,  I  couldna 
keep  my  e'en  clear,  nor  see  as  weel  as  I 
wanted  to.  Oh,  it  was  a  great  day  !  A  glori 
ous  day  for  Scotland  !  I  thank  God  he  has  let 
me  live  to  see  it !  " 

He  talked  a  little  while  longer  to  his  daugh 
ters,  and  then  grew  restless  and  put  on  his 
bonnet  and  plaid.  "  I  must  awa'  down  to  the 
cottages,"  he  said.  "The  men  and  the  women 
there  will  be  anxious  to  hear  tell  o'  the  news  I 
bring." 

He  was  quite  right  in  this  supposition.  A 
rumour  of  his  return  had  found  its  way  to  the 
fishers  on  the  shingle,  and  he  met  Peter  Loch- 
rigg  coming  up  the  cliff  to  make  inquiries.  So 
the  little  settlement  gathered  in  Peter's  cot 
tage  ;  and  Andrew  told  the  wonderful  story 
over  again,  and  told  it  with  a  great  many  de 
tails  and  incidents  he  had  not  thought  neces 
sary  when  talking  with  Ann  and  Jeannie  only. 
The  meeting  was  continued  until  a  very  late 
hour,  and  Andrew  was  glowing  and  triumphant, 
and  full  of  spiritual  satisfaction. 

Only  one  thing  had  annoyed  him.  While 
they  had  talked  together  of  the  building  of  a 
Free  Kirk  in  Port  Braddon,  Peter  Lochrigg 


42  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

mentioned  Grahame  of  Port  Braddon  as  likely 
to  give  a  helping  hand. 

Now,  Andrew  hated  David  Grahame  of  Port 
Braddon,  and  he  could  not  bear  the  thought  of 
his  interference ;  for  he  had  hitherto  believed 
the  man  to  be  strongly  in  favour  of  the  Estab 
lished  Church,  and  also  naturally  too  depraved, 
to  take  a  part  in  a  movement  so  national  and 
holy  as  the  Free  Kirk  departure.  So  he  asked 
Peter  sharply,  why  he  thought  such  a  lover  of 
Church  Patronage  as  Grahame  would  help  any 
Free  Kirk  building ;  and  Peter  answered  that 
his  son  Walter  was  a  kind-like  lad,  and  had 
spoken  frequently  as  if  he  were  in  sympathy 
with  the  Secession. 

Then  Andrew  was  very  angry  at  the  thought 
of  Walter  Grahame  being  among  his  tenants 
and  on  his  land,  and  he  said  with  an  impetuous 
annoyance  —  "  And  I  wad  like  to  know  what 
Walter  Grahame  was  doing  down  here  at  all  ? 
He  has  no  business  about  '  Carricks '  that  I 
ken  about." 

To  this  question  Peter  replied  dourly  and 
with  an  air  of  offence  that  "there  was  no  law 
to  hinder  Walter  Grahame  wandering  about  the 
shingle  if  he  was  minded  that  way." 


THE   LONE  HOUSE.  43 

Of  course  Peter  was  right,  and  Walter  had  a 
perfect  right  on  the  seashore,  but  Andrew  felt 
vexed  at  him  for  claiming  it.  He  was  suspi 
cious  also,  and  had  a  premonition  of  wrong, 
though  he  could  by  no  means  fix  its  likelihoods. 
The  little  dispute  dashed  his  sense  of  spiritual 
triumph,  and  he  went  back  to  the  Lone  House 
with  a  weight  of  apparently  unnecessary  care 
on  his  heart. 

He  found  Ann  knitting  by  the  firelight  as 
she  waited  for  him.  He  was  glad  to  see  her, 
for  there  were  some  questions  he  wished  to  ask 
before  he  slept.  Ann  wanted  to  know  all  about 
the  meeting,  and  she  was  astonished  her  father 
had  so  little  to  say  concerning  it.  Indeed,  she 
soon  perceived  that  he  was  troubled ;  and  when 
she  asked  "  if  aught  was  wrong  ? "  he  answered 
with  the  inquiry,  — 

"  Was  Walter  Grahame  here  while  I  was  in 
Edinbro'  ?  Was  he  near  here  at  all  ? " 

"  I  havena  seen  the  lad  since  you  sent  him 
awa'  yonder  night  that  he  was  in  the  byre  with 
me.  Your  will  has  aye  been  my  law,  father. 
You  ken  that  well." 

"  Yes,  I  ken  that,  Ann.  Has  Jeannie  seen 
him,  do  you  think  ?  " 


44  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

"Jeannie  would  have  told  me  if  Grahame 
had  said  this  or  that  to  her,  or  even  come  her 
road ;  and  she  hasna  named  him  to  me." 

"Then  what  for  is  the  lad  hanging  round 
about  the  Carrick  cottages  ?  Peter  Lochrigg 
spoke  of  him  in  a  very  familiar-like  pleasant 
way  indeed." 

"  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  he  is  speiring  after 
Sarah  Lochrigg.  She  is  a  very  bonnie  lass." 

"  Ay,  that  is  like  enou'.  Weel,  weel ;  Peter 
Lochrigg  can  guide  his  ain  boat  and  crew.  I 
sail  neither  mak'  nor  meddle  in  that  quarter. 
Peter  has  got  to  be  vera  proud  and  upsetting 
lately." 

"Peter  was  aye  fond  o'  authority.  It  sets 
him  hard  not  to  be  first  in  all  things." 

"You  are  right,  Ann.  I  must  speak,  to  Peter, 
for  pride  is  an  awfu'  sin.  Good-night,  my 
bairn." 

Then  Ann  went  to  her  bedroom.  Jeannie 
was  apparently  fast  asleep  ;  but  Ann's  suspi 
cions  were  aroused  by  her  father's  report  of 
Walter's  visits  to  the  cottages,  and  she  awak 
ened  her  sister  and  said,  — 

"Jeannie,  speak  to  me  a  minute.  I  hae  some 
thing  to  ask  you." 


THE  LOiVE  HOUSE.  45 

"  Whatever  is  it,  Ann  ?  You  shouldn't  wake 
folk  at  the  midnight  for  nothing." 

"  It  isn't  'nothing.'  Father  says  Walter  Gra- 
hame  goes  a  great  deal  down  to  '  Carricks,'  and 
that  Peter  Lochrigg  is  set  up  with  the  lad. 
What  will  he  be  going  there  for,  Jeannie  ?  It 
is  out  of  any  road  he  would  be  like  to  take." 

Jeannie  yawned  wearily  and  answered,  "  How 
can  I  tell  what  he  goes  for  ? " 

"  Will  it  be  to  see  Sarah  Lochrigg  ?  Do  you 
think  that  ? " 

"  You  will  have  to  ask  Sarah  hersel'  the  like 
o'  that  question.  Are  you  jealous  o'  Sarah?" 

"Me-!  Jealous?" 

"  Ay,  I  thought  you  liked  Walter.  Dinna 
bother  me  about  him  anyway.  I'm  sleepy,  and 
I'm  not  heeding." 

Jeannie's  manner  quite  satisfied  Ann.  It 
was  perfectly  natural  in  its  indifference  and 
weariness.  She  reflected  also  that  Sarah  Loch 
rigg  was  a  very  handsome  girl,  and  that  it  was 
very  likely  that  Walter  Grahame  should  be 
attracted  to  her.  She  was  a  trifle  annoyed 
at  the  quick  transference  of  Walter's  attentions 
from  herself  to  Sarah  Lochrigg,  but  she  had  no 
suspicions  ojf,  Jeannie;  and  she  went  to  sleep 
without  a  doubt  of  her  sister. 


CHAPTER   III. 


But  when  one  doeth  amiss  the  right-hand  Angel  doth  lay 

His  palm  on  the  left-hand  Angel,  and  whispers,  "  Forbear  thy  pen  I 
Peradventure  in  seven  hours  the  man  may  repent  and  pray  ! " 

Koran. 


THE  dislike  between  Carrick  and  Grahame 
was  an  inheritance  from  their  fathers. 
When  the  first  Carrick  settled  on  his  bare 
promontory,  a  Grahame  was  living  in  Port 
Braddon,  who  was  a  life-long  thorn  in  his  side. 
The  antagonism  —  though  now  veiled  in  defer 
ence  to  the  more  tolerant  spirit  of  modern 
times  —  had  lost  none  of  its  old  virulence. 
And  as  there  had  always  been  a  religious  foun 
dation  for  the  enmity,  the  Carricks  had  been 
able  to  justify  their  opposition  to  the  Grahames 
on  purely  conscientious  grounds. 

Hitherto  the  unfriendly  feeling  had  not  be 
come  actively  prominent  in  Andrew's  case. 
Nothing,  indeed,  in  their  circumstances  had 
conduced  towards  overt  deeds  of  enmity. 
Grahame  and  Carrick  lived  apart,  their  busi- 
46 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  47 

ness  was  entirely  dissimilar,  they  had  no 
mutual  friends,  and  on  Sabbath  days  An 
drew  did  not  permit  himself  to  contemplate 
this  Mordecai  in  the  gate  of  his  self-content. 

Unhappily,  however,  there  is  nothing  like  a 
religious  dispute  for  developing  latent  hatreds, 
and  Andrew's  day  of  trial  was  to  follow  hard 
upon  the  time  of  his  spiritual  enthusiasm.  A 
meeting  was  called  in  Port  Braddon  to  discuss 
the  Free  Kirk  controversy ;  and  the  farmers, 
fishers,  and  shepherd  folk  from  all  the  adjacent 
hamlets  were  present  to  a  man. 

Andrew  Carrick  had  been  asked  to  relate  his 
experience  in  Edinburgh,  and  he  was  naturally 
proud  and  happy  of  such  an  opportunity.  He 
had  a  grand  and  picturesque  tale  to  tell ;  his 
heart  burned  within  him,  and  he  had  every 
reason  to  expect  that  it  would  fire  his  tongue, 
and  make  him  eloquent  and  impressive.  He 
considered  it  important  that  he  should  be  elo 
quent,  for  it  was  likely  the  success  of  the  Free 
Kirk  in  Port  Braddon  depended  very  much  on 
the  way  his  words  influenced  those  who  listened 
to  him. 

He  began  well,  for  he  was  surrounded  by 
ardent  sympathisers ;  but  before  long  Grahame 


48  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

entered,  and  Andrew  found  that  his  antagonism 
quickly  damped  and  embarrassed  him.  He  sat 
looking  into  Andrew's  face  with  half-closed 
eyes,  and  such  a  scornful,  disapproving  smile 
on  his  tightly  shut  lips,  that  Andrew's  fiery 
words  were  chilled  ere  they  reached  their  mark. 
In  the  long  run,  he  did  no  more  than  put  be 
fore  them  the  question  which  every  man  there 
knew  perfectly  in  all  its  bearings  ;  and  he  felt 
that  even  if  the  Free  Kirk  was  a  success  in 
Port  Braddon,  that  Andrew  Carrick  personally 
had  failed. 

And  afterward,  when  the  subject  came  up  for 
general  discussion,  nothing  could  warm  or  con 
vince  David  Grahame.  He  possessed  a  rough 
kind  of  eloquence  ;  and  when  he  rose  to  speak, 
he  turned  Andrew's  description  of  a  "wronged 
Kirk  "  into  the  most  scornful  ridicule  ;  and  de 
clared  that  for  his  part,  "he  thought  the  Kirk 
had  lost  her  senses,  and  had  been  smitten  with 
the  rebellious  spirit  o'  the  ten  tribes  o'  Israel ; 
and  in  sic  a  case,"  he  added  with  an  emphatic 
blow  upon  the  table,  "  in  sic  a  case,  I  wad 
prefer  to  be  wi'  the  minority." 

Nothing  could  move  Grahame  from  this  posi 
tion.  He  declared  it  to  be  his  conscientious 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  49 

conviction ;  and  his  conscience  was  ably  sup 
ported  both  by  his  inclinations  and  his  interests. 
For  in  opposing  the  Free  Kirk,  he  opposed  the 
man  whom  he  heartily  disliked  ;  and  he  was 
also  likely  to  save  money  by  this  pleasant  in 
dulgence  of  his  ill-will  —  for  if  he  was  against 
the  building  of  a  Free  Kirk  he  could  not 
reasonably  be  asked  to  assist  in  building  it. 

Indeed,  he  said  plainly,  and  with  much  un 
necessary  strength  of  language,  that  he  "did 
not  want  a  new  kirk,  and  that  those  who  did 
want  one  be  to  pay  for  the  building  of  it." 
Consequently  Andrew  Carrick  felt  obliged  to 
give  much  more  money  to  the  enterprise  than 
he  had  calculated  to  be  his  lawful  share.  For 
Grahame's  example  was  not  without  its  influ 
ence;  there  being  many  besides  himself  who 
were  glad  to  find  some  respectable  principle  to 
excuse  the  shutting  of  their  purses  against 
this  new  claim. 

This  dispute,  occurring  within  the  bounds  of 
the  kirk,  was  carried  on  with  decency  and 
respect,  and  outwardly  did  not  appear  to  be  a 
very  bitter  one.  But  it  was  like  the  letting  out 
of  water.  The  breach  seemed  to  grow  by  the 
mere  fact  of  its  existence ;  for  these  were  not 


50  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

times  when  any  strong  feeling  could  be  kept 
in  abeyance,  opportunities  for  their  translation 
into  action  being  too  positive  and  plentiful. 
And  very  soon  an  occasion  arose  for  Grahame 
and  Carrick  to  give  forcible  and  active  expres 
sion  to  their  ill  feeling  toward  each  other.  It 
happened  in  this  manner  :  — 

There  was  a  man  living  in  Port  Braddon  who 
desired  greatly  to  help  in  the  building  of  the 
new  Free  Kirk;  but  though  he  was  enthusiastic 
in  spirit  he  was  very  poor  in  cash.  However, 
he  owned  a  tract  of  land  directly  to  the  north 
of  Andrew's  land ;  and  he  resolved  to  sell  it, 
and  to  give  the  price  of  it,  much  or  little, 
toward  the  enterprise.  He  first  offered  it  to 
Andrew,  and  Andrew  was  exceedingly  glad  of 
the  offer.  For  if  there  was  one  piece  of  land 
in  Galloway  he  wished  for  above  all  others,  it 
was  this  identical  few  acres  of  pasturage. 

He  was  so  pleased  at  the  circumstance  that 
he  could  not  refrain  from  telling  Ann  as  soon 
as  he  reached  his  home.  "  I  hae  long  wanted 
thae  few  acres,"  he  said,  with  an  air  of  satisfac 
tion.  "  They  will  gie  me  the  extra  pasture  I 
need  for  the  cattle ;  and  the  land  lies  sib  to  my 
land,  and  is  a  vera  pairt  o'  it.  I  hae  often 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  5 1 

won'ered  what  for  the  first  Andrew  Carrick 
didna  buy  it  in  the  beginning." 

"  Have  you  bargained  and  bought  already, 
father  ? "  asked  Ann  curiously ;  for  she  knew 
her  father's  slow  and  cautious  ways  in  all  busi 
ness  matters. 

"  I  havena  a'thegither  bought  it,  Ann.  I 
told  Thomas  Largs  I  wad  tak'  a  night  to  think 
o'  it  ;  but  I  let  him  see  that  the  bargain  was  as 
gude  as  made." 

"  Is  the  price  to  your  liking,  father  ?  " 

"  In  ordinar  times  I  wouldna  think  o'  gieing 
the  siller  asked,  but  I'll  no  think  o'  bargaining 
wi'  the  Lord.  The  land  is  his  now,  and  I'll 
pay  the  sum  asked,  were  it  twice  beyond  this 
warld's  value.  I'm  not  saying  the  price  is 
beyond  value.  One  way  or  another,  the  price 
is  a  fair  price." 

"  Then  why  did  you  not  buy  it  at  the  offer  ? 
If  the  land  is  in  the  market  you  might  lose  it 
between  to-night  and  to-morrow." 

"It  isna  my  way,  nor  is  it  the  way  o'  any 
douce  wise-like  body,  to  close  a  bargain  wi'  a 
snap.  I  aye  tak'  a  night  to  think  o'er  any 
*  maybe'.  And  as  for  the  land  being  sold  other 
ways,  it  isna  at  all  likely.  Land  isna  that 


52  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

easily  passed  frae  hand  to  hand.  Sae  taking  a 
night's  thought  is  but  decency  and  dignity. 
I  might  tak'  a  month  to  think  o'  it,  and  have 
nane  to  bid  against  me." 

Generally  speaking,  Andrew's  conjectures  in 
this  respect  would  have  been  within  reason  and 
likelihood.  But  that  night  Grahame  heard  of 
the  proposed  transaction,  and  immediately  bid 
ten  pounds  over  the  first  price.  Thomas  Largs 
indeed  insisted  that  Andrew  had  the  first  re 
fusal  of  the  land  ;  but  as  the  money  was  for  the 
kirk,  he  thought  all  parties  would  consider  it 
fair  and  just  to  take  the  highest  offer  that 
could  be  got.  Consequently,  for  nine  days 
Grahame  and  Carrick  bid  against  each  other 
for  the  strip  of  pasturage,  and  at  last  —  Grahame 
bought  it. 

It  was  a  very  great  mortification  to  Andrew, 
though  he  consoled  himself  with  the  thought 
that  he  had  made  Grahame  pay  more  than 
double  the  value  of  the  land.  And  when 
people  said  "  there  was  nae  doubt  but  that  the 
'  bidding '  had  been  a  clever  arrangement  be 
tween  Thomas  Largs  and  Andrew  Carrick  to 
mak'  David  Grahame  do  his  duty  by  the  new 
kirk,"  Andrew  was  grimly  pleased  to  let  the 


7777f   LONE   HOUSE.  53 

idea  furnish  talk  and  laughter  for  the  little 
town.  For  he  knew  well  that  Grahame  would 
fume  and  bluster  at  the  "trick,"  and  in  his 
passions  be  sure  to  put  himself  in  the  wrong. 

Still,  these  were  very  hard  weeks  inside  the 
Lone  House  for  himself  and  his  daughters. 
Andrew  was,  as  Ann  Carrick  said,  "gey  ill  to 
live  with,"  both  during  the  negotiation  and  for 
sometime  after  it..  For  he  was  sorely  disap 
pointed  in  missing  the  land,  and  he  felt  it  hard 
that  Grahame  had  not  been  prevented  from  in 
terfering  with  a  purchase  so  manifestly  just 
and  proper  for  himself. 

"It  was  even-down  malice  and  ill-will  in 
David  Grahame  bidding  the  land  aboon  my 
price,  and  I  won'er  what  for  a  just  God  let  him 
do  it."  He  made  this  reflection  constantly; 
and  it  poisoned  his  food,  and  his  sleep,  and 
even  his  prayers.  For  he  put  down  Grahame's 
perverseness  as  a  kind  of  persecution  of  him 
for  his  advocacy  of  Free  Kirk  principles ;  and 
he  read  against  him,  morning  and  night,  the 
bitterest  Psalms  he  could  find. 

And  all  through  the  day  as  he  nursed  his  lap- 
stone,  he  nursed  his  wrong ;  finding  what  con 
solation  he  could  in  telling  himself  and  others 


54  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

that  "the  Grahames  had  aye  and  ever  been 
persecutors  o'  the  freedom  o'  The  Word  and  o' 
the  rights  o'  Conscience  ; "  and  then  by  way  of 
commentary  and  proof,  recalling  every  atrocity 
against  the  old  Covenanters  which  could  be 
associated  with  the  unpopular  name  and  family. 

Grahame  also  felt  very  bitter  towards  Andrew. 
He  readily  believed  the  general  impression  that 
Largs  and  Carrick  had  colleagued  together  to 
egg  him  on  to  pay  more  than  one  hundred 
pounds  beyond  what  the  land  was  really  worth  ; 
and  this  belief  took  from  him  the  sense  of 
gratified  hatred  which  was  the  only  interest  or 
pleasure  he  looked  for  in  the  spending  of  so 
much  money.  He  felt  that  he  had  been  tricked 
both  out  of  his  money  and  his  revenge,  and  that 
Andrew  was  quietly  laughing  at  him  for  falling 
so  easily  into  the  net  laid  for  him.  And  it  was 
not  only  Andrew  ;  he  was  sure,  also,  that  every 
Free  Kirker  in  Port  Braddon  was  laughing  at 
him. 

For  one  day  at  his  own  door-stone,  he  was 
delayed  by  Watty  Lowe,  an  old  half-witted 
town  pensioner,  who  said  to  him  with  a  knowing 
smile  :  — 

"  It's  a  big  sum  o'  money  you  hae  gi'en  to 


THE  LOWE  HOUSE.  55 

the  great  wark,  Maister  Grahame.  Folk  ne'er 
thought  you  were  sae  likely  to  do  the  leeberal 
thing!  But  He  tak'eth  the  wise  in  their  ain 
craftiness  —  I  wasna  meaning  to  say  that, 
Maister  Grahame.  I  was  just  thinking  o'  it, 
and  the  words  cam'  oot  as  it  were  unawares." 

And  as  Watty  Lowe  was  a  privileged  char 
acter,  whose  freedom  of  speech  it  would  be 
ridiculous  to  resent,  Grahame  had  to  take  the 
remarks  as  well  as  he  could.  But  he  told  him 
self  with  a  passionate  bitterness,  that  Watty 
Lowe  had  only  given  a  frank  utterance  to  the 
popular  opinion  concerning  his  unintentional 
liberality  to  "the  great  work." 

Under  ordinary  circumstances  an  ill  feeling 
even  as  pronounced  as  that  now  existing  be 
tween  David  Grahame  and  Andrew  Carrick 
might  have  "  simmered  "  in  both  hearts,  and 
never  found  an  occasion  for  a  more  active  ex 
hibition.  But  the  circumstances  were  not  only 
unusual ;  they  were  also  highly  conductive  to 
exciting  and  developing  dormant  anger.  For 
the  new  kirk  was  now  being  built,  and  Andrew 
Carrick  was  the  chairman  of  the  Building 
Committee. 

In  this  capacity  he  was  as  scrupulous  as  he 


56  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

was  about  the  stitches  and  leather  of  his  own 
trade.  He  conceived  it  to  be  his  duty  to  ex 
amine  every  stone  and  beam  of  the  new  edifice, 
and  he  got  no  little  annoyance  from  the  various 
workmen  whom  he  thought  it  proper  to  watch 
and  interrogate. 

"  Do  you  think,  Andrew  Carrick,  that  no  one 
can  do  a  fair  day's  wark  but  yoursel'?"  or  — 
"  Are  you  the  only  honest  man  in  Galloway, 
Andrew  Carrick?"  or  —  "Come  mix  the  mor 
tar  wi'  your  ain  hands,  if  you  think  there  is  too 
much  sand  i'  the  lime,  Andrew  Carrick  : "  such 
was  the  usual  tenor  of  the  remarks  made  by 
the  builders,  whom  he  felt  bound  to  overlook, 
and  frequently  to  check  and  advise. 

But  Andrew  was  not  deterred  by  opposition  : 
he  felt  that  he  was  only  zealous  and  jealous  for 
the  God  of  the  Free  Kirk,  and  he  left  his  own 
affairs  without  complaint  to  watch  over  those 
whom  he  believed  to  be  less  conscientious  than 
himself.  But  if  he  had  only  searched  his  own 
motives  as  rigorously  as  he  searched  the  labour 
of  others  he  would  have  found  at  the  very 
bottom  of  them  a  positive  pleasure  to  himself 
in  these  frequent  visits  to  Port  Braddon,  for  he 
knew  that  he  very  seldom  went  there  without 
being  seen  by  David  Grahame. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  57 

Now,  the  very  sight  of  Andrew  Carrick's 
stern,  dark  face  was  more  than  Grahame  could 
endure.  When  Carrick  rode  past  his  door  on 
his  Galloway  pony,  so  proud  and  masterful 
looking,  Grahame  could  hardly  keep  his  hands 
off  him.  He  could  not  keep  his  tongue ;  nor 
did  he  try.  As  soon  as  Andrew  came  in  sight, 
he  went  and  stood  at  his  open  door,  and  from 
that  point  of  advantage  assailed  him  with  ques 
tions  as  to  the  reason  for  his  frequent  visits  — 
questions  whose  very  suggestions  were  intoler 
able  offences  to  a  man  of  Carrick's  spotless 
morality. 

Andrew  never  opened  his  lips  in  reply. 
However  insulting  the  supposition,  it  gave  him 
a  positive  pleasure  to  be  grimly  silent.  But  if 
the  old  Covenanters  looked  at  their  persecu 
tors  as  Carrick  looked  at  Grahame,  their  in 
tolerant  hatred  and  revenge  may  be  easily 
understood.  The  pitying  scorn  in  Andrew's 
glowing  eyes,  and  proud,  stern  face  was  bad 
enough ;  but  there  was  added  to  it  that  com 
placent  spiritual  satisfaction  which  made  the 
Pharisees  so  detested,  and  which  doubtless 
accompanied  all  their  allusions  to  "publicans 
and  sinners."  Then  with  his  upright  carriage, 


58  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

his  slow  gait,  and  his  disdainful  air  generally, 
something  of  Carrick's  power  to  exasperate 
may  be  conceived. 

And  of  course  this  public  hatred  did  not 
lack  its  domestic  expression.  In  his  family 
Grahame  made  Carrick  the  text  for  all  his 
mockery,  and  the  occasion  of  all  his  bad 
temper.  He  "dared"  his  son  to  ever  look 
the  road  the  Carrick  girls  walked  again, 
and  he  vowed  to  turn  him  out  of  house  and 
kenning  if  he  ever  opened  his  lips  to  either 
of  them. 

Carrick  was  just  as  bitter  and  still  more  par 
ticular  in  his  charges.  And  he  spoke  so  much 
of  the  "  evil  Grahames "  and  of  the  special 
wrongs  and  insults  he  had  to  suffer  from  them, 
that  it  hardly  seemed  possible  any  daughter 
could  feel  kindly  to  the  son  of  a  man  who  daily 
insinuated  against  her  father  the  very  sins 
which  were  most  offensive  to  his  nature  and 
his  principles. 

For  Ann  Carrick,  her  father's  feelings  were 
sufficient,  and  would  have  been,  even  without 
his  express  commands ;  but  Jeannie  ventured  to 
say  one  night  to  her  sister  :  — 

"Nannie,  don't  you  think  it  is  gey  hard  for 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  59 

poor  Walter  Grahame  to  have  to  suffer  for  his 
father's  ill  tongue  ? " 

"  No  ;  for  I  make  no  doubts  that  Walter  is  of 
his  father's  way  o'  thinking.  He  couldna  bide 
in  the  same  house  wi'  Grahame,  and  not  be." 

"  I  don't  believe  he  is,  Nannie.  You  used  to 
like  Walter  ;  you  did  that,  Nannie ;  and  I'm 
sure  he  said  '  you  were  a  beauty.'  I  wonder  at 
you  !  If  any  lad  liked  me  that  well,  I  would 
stand  up  for  him  !  yes,  I  would  —  father  or  no 
father." 

"  Then  you  would  be  a  wicked  daughter, 
Jeannie  ;  and  your  love  would  have  no  blessing 
on  it.  Who  ever  kent  of  any  good  coming  to 
an  unblessed  love  ?  " 

"  But,  Nannie,  marriages  are  ordered  for  us  — 
at  least,  folk  say  that.  Now,  what  would  you 
do  if  you  were  mated  wi'  Walter  Grahame  ? " 

"  If  God  orders  marriages,  Jeannie,  you  may 
be  sure  he  willna  order  any  that  will  make 
hate  and  anger  and  evil  speaking,  and  worse 
doing.  God  would  never  do  that." 

"  Weel,  weel !  but  the  books  a'  say  that  the 
course  o'  true  love  ne'er  runs  smooth." 

"  That  may  be  so  ;  for  true  love  is  like  enough 
to  meet  with  parting,  and  sorrow,  and  poverty, 


60  THE   LONE  HOUSE. 

and  death  itsel'.  But  if  it  be  true  love,  it  will 
win  its  way  through  every  trouble,  and  grow  so 
strong  that  it  willna  fear  death.  And  all  this 
may  be  in  a  love  of  God's  willing  and  father's 
blessing.  But  you,  nor  any  other,  can  make 
me  believe  that  a  love  that  breeds  thoughts  o' 
murder  is  of  God's  ordering ;  and  you  ken 
what  father  said  anent  a  marriage  between 
Walter  Grahame  and  either  o'  us  twa  ? " 

"  Ay ;  he  said  he  would  hinder  it  —  if  he 
could." 

"  He  said  he  would  hinder  it,  though  he  called 
Death  in  to  break  the  bands  o'  it.  I  sail  never 
speak  to  Walter  again.  I  sail  never  see  Walter 
again.  And  I  counsel  you,  Jeannie  Carrick, 
ne'er  to  heed  him  either.  He  isna  to  come 
into  our  lives  ;  and  if  we  will  have  him  in,  we 
sail  get  sorrow  enough  with  him." 

"  You  are  aye  fore-speaking  ill,  Ann.  But 
there  are  bonnier  lads  in  Scotland  than  Walter 
Grahame,"  said  Jeannie,  and  she  began  to 
turn  her  wheel  with  an  air  of  total  indifference 
to  the  subject. 

So  the  winter  and  summer  months  passed, 
and  in  the  Lone  House  there  appeared  to  be  no 
great  changes.  During  them,  Andrew  was  in 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  6 1 

constant  communication  with  his  cousin,  the 
Rev.  Cosmo  Carrick  ;  and  this  correspondence 
brightened  very  materially  the  long  days.  For 
Cosmo  Carrick  stood  in  the  very  thick  of  the 
fight,  and  he  kept  Andrew  well  posted  on  the 
workings  of  this  grand  crusade.  There  were 
wonderful  things  to  tell,  and  Cosmo  told  them 
with  a  heart  on  fire ;  and  then  Andrew  had  the 
pleasure  of  reading  these  letters  at  the  prayer- 
meetings  and  Kirk  meetings,  and  of  tasting  the 
joy  of  being  a  dispenser  of  glad  tidings. 

It  was  always  a  happy  day  that  brought  a 
letter  from  Cosmo  Carrick,  and  it  was  generally 
a  happy  evening ;  for  word  was  sent  down  to 
the  cottages,  and  there  was  sure  to  be  a  gather 
ing  after  the  day's  work  was  done  at  the  Lone 
House,  to  listen  to  the  latest  Kirk  news,  and 
to  discuss  whatever  was  new  in  the  movement. 

For  some  weeks  after  the  open  rupture  with 
Grahame,  Andrew  had  been  silent  and  gloomy ; 
but  these  letters  had  a  vivifying  influence.  And 
the  daily  routine  of  the  house  was  so  even  and 
cheery  that  he  lost  all  fear  of  change.  Ann 
went  in  and  out,  alert  and  cheerful,  and  quite 
happy  amid  her  daily  duties.  And  Jeannie  sat 
in  the  house-place  beside  her  father,  spinning 


62  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

fine  wool  or  flax,  or  sewing,  or  knitting ;  and 
as  April's  sun  and  showers  brightened  the 
earth,  Ann  often  heard  Jeannie  and  her  father 
singing  together  some  old  Covenanting  Psalm 
or  battle  hymn. 

How  could  she  dream  that  during  all  these 
months  Jeannie  had  been  seeing  her  lover 
clandestinely  ?  How  could  she  suspect  that 
the  merry  girl  singing  and  sewing  and  sleeping 
by  her  side  had  already  persuaded  herself  that 
her  "am  way"  was  the  only  way  in  which  she 
could  possibly  be  happy  ;  and  that  her  ain  way 
was  the  road  which  Walter  Grahame  would 
point  out  to  her. 

As  for  Carrick,  Jeannie  was  the  very  last 
human  creature  he  feared.  She  sat  on  her 
creepie  beside  him  at  nights ;  and  the  hand 
that  was  to  smite  him  lay  lovingly  across  his 
knee,  or  was  clasped  in  his  hand  as  they  knelt 
together  by  the  small  round  table  which  was 
the  family  altar.  Oh,  how  could  he  doubt 
Jeannie ! 


CHAPTER   IV. 

The  ills  we  see, 

The  mysteries  of  sorrow  dark  and  long, 
The  dark  enigmas  of  permitted  wrong, 

Have  all  one  key : 

This  strange,  sad  world  is  but  o.ur  Father's  school, 
And  every  change  his  love  shall  overrule. 

SO  the  long  winter  went,  and  the  spring 
came  again.  The  sweet  April  days  full 
of  moisture  and  sunshine,  and  tender  blues  and 
greens,  made  even  this  corner  of  Galloway 
beautiful.  White  sails  of  the  fishermen's  boats 
specked  the  ocean ;  the  sheep  and  lambs  were 
nibbling  the  tender  grass  on  the  hillsides ;  and 
Ann  Carrick  was  beginning  to  talk  once  more  of 
the  spring  cleaning  and  bleaching. 

For  it  was  not  unlikely  that  Andrew  would 
again  have  to  visit  Edinburgh.  The  new  kirk 
was  approaching  completion,  and  its  members 
were  quietly  discussing  the  particular  great 
preacher  who  should  be  asked  to  officiate  at 
the  opening  services.  The  prevailing  senti 
ment  was  in  favour  of  the  Rev.  Cosmo  Carrick, 

63 


64  THE  LONE  HOUSE 

whose  letters  during  the  winter  had  been  a  ser 
vice  of  delight  and  instruction  to  them.  And 
Andrew  was  much  exercised  about  this  invita 
tion,  and  most  anxious  to  secure  it  for  his 
cousin. 

If  it  was  decided  in  favour  of  Cosmo  Carrick, 
Andrew  had  offered  to  go  to  Edinburgh  at  his 
own  expense  with  the  invitation  from  the  Kirk. 
He  had  also  said  something  about  looking  out 
for  a  suitable  communion  service  while  he  was 
there ;  and  a  general  impression  existed,  that 
under  favourable  circumstances,  Andrew  might 
make  the  Kirk  a  gift  of  this  service. 

Indeed,  though  no  actual  promise  had  been 
made  the  Kirk  regarding  this  service,  Andrew 
had  really  promised  himself  to  give  it  from  his 
own  means,  "  if  the  Lord  were  sae  gracious  as 
to  honour  the  name  o'  Carrick  in  the  vera 
sight  o'  them  that  thought  little  o'  it "  —  that 
is,  if  his  cousin  Cosmo  was  chosen  to  open 
the  doors  of  the  new  Free  Kirk  for  divine 
worship. 

This  was  a  matter  upon  which  from  the  first 
breath  of  it  Andrew  had  set  his  whole  heart. 
He  had  educated  Cosmo  for  the  ministry,  and 
he  liked  the  young  man  —  who  had  been  ex- 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  65 

ceedingly  grateful  and  respectful ;  and  to  have 
him  —  now  a  placed  minister — stay  in  his  house, 
and  go  from  his  hearth  into  the  new  pulpit, 
would  be  possibly  the  very  greatest  pleasure  of 
its  kind  that  earth  could  give  him. 

He  knew  also  that  David  Grahame  was  using 
all  his  influence  to  prevent  the  invitation ;  yes, 
he  was  even  spending  money  to  do  so.  There 
fore  to  have  Grahame  fail  in  his  malicious 
efforts  would  be  a  very  delightful  triumph,  and 
the  sweetest  morsel  of  revenge  that  could  be 
vouchsafed  him.  He  did  not  call  it  revenge  ; 
he  did  not  dare  to  make  inquiry  of  his  heart 
concerning  the  feelings  he  nursed  there ;  but 
he  looked  forward  to  the  decision  of  the  ques 
tion  with  an  anxiety  that  kept  his  very  breath 
ing  in  a  state  of  tension.  And  though  he  did 
not  exactly  pray  about  the  decision  and  Gra- 
hame's  interference  with  it,  he  did  remember 
continually  David's  chosen  evidence  of  God's 
favour —  "that  his  enemies  should  not  triumph 
over  him." 

At  length  the  important  day  arrived.  It  was 
a  very  day  of  beauty  ;  a  day  full  of  the  airs  and 
sunshine  of  Paradise,  and  Andrew  went  to  Port 
Braddon  with  a  sense  of  quiet  and  confidence 


66  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

in  his  heart.  Without  words  he  had  been  pas 
sionately  demanding  success  in  this  matter,  and 
at  the  last  hour  an  assurance  of  it  had  come  to 
him.  He  walked  into  the  Kirk  session  with 
that  feeling,  and  he  saw  its  confirmation  on 
every  face,  and  felt  it  in  every  voice.  He  knew 
they  intended  him  a  kindness,  for  they  all  spoke 
kindly. 

And  when  the  vote  was  taken,  a  great  tri 
umph  awaited  him.  It  was  an  unanimous  vote 
in  favour  of  the  Rev.  Cosmo  Carrick.  As 
to  the  communion  service,  it  was  left  entirely 
in  Andrew's  discretion.  He  was  very  happy, 
though  he  said  only  a  few  words  in  reply  — 
"  Ye  ken,  men  and  brethren,  I  sail  do  the  best 
and  the  utmost  in  me  for  this  honour  and 
favour."  And  his  face  was  solemn  and  impas 
sive,  but  oh,  how  lifted  up  he  was ! 

Full  of  this  spiritual  triumph,  he  was  riding 
slowly  down  the  main  street  of  Port  Braddon, 
and  his  soul  was  so  exalted  and  excited  that  he 
did  not  feel  the  saddle,  nor  consciously  guide 
the  reins  of  his  pony.  David  on  the  throne  of 
the  Twelve  Tribes  could  not  have  been  more 
satisfied  with  himself  as  a  chosen  vessel  of 
God's  favour.  He  was  feeling  Grahame  to  be 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  6/ 

literally  beneath  his  notice,  and  beneath  his 
feet,  when  he  met  him  face  to  face. 

Carrick  did  not  even  look  at  his  enemy ;  but 
his  whole  attitude  and  expression  were  so  intol 
erably  exasperating  to  Grahame,  that  the  man 
was  dumb  with  passion,  and  could  not  utter  his 
usual  scornful  and  immodest  jibes. 

And  Andrew  took  this  silence  to  be  another 
evidence  of  heavenly  favour  toward  him.  "  The 
Lord  hath  shut  the  mouth  o'  mine  enemy  for 
me,"  he  said  proudly.  "  It  is  a  good  thing  to 
keep  silence,  and  let  him  speak  that  kens  sae 
weel  how."  All  the  way  back  to  his  home 
such  thoughts  kept  him  delightsome  company. 
They  blended  themselves  with  the  caller  air 
from  the  sea  and  the  mountains,  with  the  lin 
nets  singing  in  the  whin  bushes,  with  the  lambs 
bleating  on  the  hills,  and  the  cattle  lowing  for 
the  milking.  Perhaps  in  all  his  life  Andrew 
Carrick  had  never  known  an  hour  more  full  to 
him  of  the  sweetness  of  earth  and  the  very 
presence  of  God. 

Ann  had  been  very  anxious  for  his  success, 
so  anxious  that  she  could  not  feel  any  interest 
in  her  household  work.  She  had  been  stand 
ing  at  the  door  watching  for  an  hour  before 


68  THE   LONE   HOUSE. 

she  saw  him  coming.  But  her  first  glance  was 
assuring,  and  she  could  divine  by  his  very  car 
riage  that  "  a'  things  had  gone  right ; "  that  is, 
they  had  gone  as  her  father  desired  them  to  go. 

Andrew,  however,  would  not  speak  with  un 
due  haste  of  his  triumph  —  especially  to  his 
women  folk.  He  gave  his  pony  its  supper, 
and  walked  through  the  byre,  and  went  into 
the  garden  to  see  if  Ann  had  sown  the  lettuce 
seed.  But  Ann  was  happy.  She  needed  no 
words  to  explain  to  her  the  brightness  of  her 
father's  dark  face  and  the  proud  confidence  of 
his  walk.  And  when  she  came  into  his  pres 
ence,  he  looked  at  her  with  a  pleasant  impor 
tance,  and  said,  — 

"Ann,  I'm  awa'  to  Edinbro'  on  Monday 
morn.  I'm  going  on  business  for  the  Kirk ; 
very  important  business.  See  to  it,  then,  that 
my  suit  o'  black  braidcloth  is  put  up  wi'  a'  the 
ither  things  proper  and  conformable." 

"  I  am  glad,  father  !  I  am  glad  with  a'  my 
heart,  father !  " 

"  God  has  gi'en  me  the  desire  o'  my  heart, 
Ann ;  and  I  am  doobtless  set  up  a  bit  wi'  his 
favour.  That  is  the  main  thing,  Ann.  Your 
cousin,  the  Rev.  Cosmo  Carrick,  will  be  vera 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  69 

likely  to  come  back  wi'  me.  It  is  to  be  a  time 
o'  great  spiritual  joy,  my  bairn,  and  you  will 
see  to  it  that  nothing  suitable  be  lacking  in  the 
way  o'  creature  comforts  and  conveniences.  If 
you  are  needing  siller  for  aught,  you  can  ask 
me  for  it." 

Then  he  looked  around  the  empty  room  so 
quiet  and  asked  testily,  "  Whar  is  your  sister 
Jeannie  ?  I  thought  she  wad  surely  be  watch 
ing  and  waiting  for  the  good  news." 

"Jeannie  isna  home  yet.  She  went  away 
long  ere  the  noon-hour.  She  went  down  to 
Lucky  Boyd's  for  some  fine  flax.  She  said  she 
wouldna  be  very  long ;  but  I  havena  seen  her 
since.  I'm  a  bit  worried  about  her.  I  wish 
she  would  come  home.  I  am  aye  kind  of  anx 
ious  when  it  gets  to  sundown  if  Jeannie  is  out 
o'  my  sight." 

"  Tut,  tut !  Jeannie  kens  weel  how  to  tak' 
care  o'  hersel'  ;  why  not  ? " 

He  took  his  pipe  and  sat  down  on  the  hearth. 
Jeannie's  stool  was  in  the  corner,  and  he  let  his 
eyes  fall  upon  it  with  a  sense  of  disappoint 
ment.  He  wanted  Jeannie  there  to  talk  to 
him.  He  wanted  to  tell  her  about  his  trip  to 
Edinburgh  and  the  contemplated  visit  of  her 


7O  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

cousin  Cosmo.     He  felt  her  absence  to  be  the 
first  shadow  on  his  afternoon's  glory. 

Indeed,  Andrew  was  already  planning  in  his 
heart  a  marriage  between  Jeannie  and  the 
admirable  young  minister,  Cosmo  Carrick.  In 
the  way  of  marriages  he  could  think  of  none 
that  could  give  him  so  much  satisfaction.  He 
had  resolved  that  very  night  to  tell  Jeannie 
how  handsome  and  "  minister-like  "  her  cousin 
was ;  and  to  drop  her  a  hint,  that  for  all  the 
young  man's  gifts  and  graces,  he  would  hardly 
be  blind  and  deaf  to  her  beauty  and  winning 
ways. 

And  this  night,  of  all  nights,  she  was  absent 
from  his  side.  He  was  disappointed ;  and 
smoking  to  disappointment  is  not  pleasant 
smoking.  He  very  soon  put  down  his  pipe 
and  went  to  the  door.  The  twilight  was  creep 
ing  o'er  land  and  sea.  The  dew  was  falling. 
There  was  a  sense  of  loneliness  outside,  and 
he  turned  into  the  house  again.  Jeannie's 
empty  stool  was  the  first  thing  his  eyes  fell 
on.  In  the  deepening  gloom  it  looked  almost 
tragical.  He  grew  very  restless.  He  kept  say 
ing,  "  I  wonder  whar  she  is  at  all ;  I  wonder 
whar  she  is  ? "  And  every  time  he  said  the 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  Jl 

words,  he  said  them  with  increasing  fear  and 
restlessness. 

He  was  glad  to  hear  Ann  coming  in  from 
the  byre.  But  the  girl's  face  terrified  him. 
She  set  down  her  milk  pails  and  burst  into 
tears. 

"Father,  father!"  she  cried.  "There  is 
something  no  right.  I  canna  bear  it  longer. 
I'm  awa'  down  to  the  cottages  to  speir  after 
Jeannie." 

"  Stop  here.     I'll  go  myselV 

So  Ann  lifted  her  milk  and  went  into  the 
dairy,  and  Andrew,  with  long,  rapid  strides, 
went  down  to  the  shingle. 

It  was  quite  dark  when  he  returned.  Ann 
was  standing  trembling  at  the  open  door  when 
she  heard  his  footsteps.  There  was  no  lighter 
step  with  him.  Then  he  had  not  found  Jean 
nie.  Her  heart  stood  still  with  terror.  She 
went  into  the  house  as  her  father  approached 
and  lit  a  candle.  When  she  turned  with  it  in 
her  hand,  her  father  was  present.  His  face 
was  white  and  angry.  He  seemed  almost  in 
capable  of  speech. 

"  Have  you  seen  Jeannie,  father  ? " 

"No." 


72  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

"  Had  she  been  at  Lucky  Boyd's  ? " 
"  No.  She  told  you  a  lie.  She  has  not  been 
at  any  of  the  cottages  to-day,  but  I  hae  found 
out  that  she  hae  been  there  far  too  often  other 
days.  What  for  didna  you  tell  me  that  she  was 
meeting  Walter  Grahame  at  Peter  Lochrigg's?" 
he  asked  passionately.  "  I'll  ne'er  forgive  Peter. 
No,  I'll  ne'er  forgive  him  in  this  world,  and  I 
hae  told  him  sae.  We  hae  had  words,  Ann, 
and  he  willna  lightly  forget  them.  Oh,  lassie, 
lassie  !  Why  didna  you  tell  me  ?  " 

"  I  never  knew  aught  of  it.  Before  God  I 
never  knew  it ! " 

Ann  was  afraid  to  say  more.  She  had  never 
seen  such  anger  as  blackened  her  father's  face. 
He  pushed  Jeannie's  stool  out  of  his  sight  with 
words  she  thought  Andrew  Carrick  would  be 
feared  and  shamed  to  use.  He  tried  to  sit  still, 
but  he  could  not.  The  very  presence  of  Ann 
appeared  to  annoy  and  irritate  him.  He  would 
not  speak  to  her.  He  would  not  look  at  her; 
and  shivering  with  cold  and  sick  with  anxiety, 
she  went  into  the  dairy,  and  sat  down  there 
until  he  called  her. 

"  It  is  bedtime,"  he  said.     "  Lock  the  door." 
She  did  so,  and  then  laid  the  Bible  upon  the 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  73 

table.  He  turned  away  from  The  Book,  and 
said  almost  angrily,  — 

"If  you  can  pray,  go  and  pray  by  yoursel'. 
God  will  hae  to  speak  a  word  to  me  before  I 
can  speak  to  him.  Ann  Carrick,  whar  is  your 
sister  ?  " 

"  I  wish  I  knew  !     Oh,  I  wish  I  knew  !  " 

"  Think.  Did  she  not  say  one  word  that  was 
mair  than  ordinary  to  you  ? " 

"  Not  a  word,  father.     Not  one." 

"  Whar  were  you  when  she  left  the  house  ?  " 

"  I  was  in  the  dairy  skimming  the  milk. 
She  came  to  my  side  and  said  —  just  as  she 
always  spoke  — '  Nannie,  I'm  awa'  down  to  the 
seashore.' " 

"  What  said  you  ?  " 

"  I  said,  '  Not  you ;  you  lazy  lassie  !  Go  to 
your  seam.'  And  she  said,  '  Nannie,  I  canna 
sew  to-day.  I  keep  thinking  o'  the  White 
Caves,  and  the  green  waves  tumbling  through 
them,  and  I'm  going  there  a  wee.' ' 

"Weel?" 

"  I  said,  '  Dinna  go  there  for  my  sake  !  Go 
to  Lucky  Boyd's,  and  get  some  mair  fine  flax, 
and  see  that  you  are  hame  at  noon-hour.' " 

"Weel?" 


74  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

"  She  answered  me  with  a  laugh  ;  and  when  I 
urged  her  she  said,  'I'll  have  a  herring  and  a 
cup  of  tea  with  Lucky,  and  she  will  read  me 
the  queer  dream  I  had  last  night.'" 

"And  then?" 

"  She  pinched  my  arm ;  and  when  I  turned 
quick-like,  she  said,  '  There's  a  kiss  to  pay  for 
the  pinch,  Nannie.'  A  minute  after,  I  turned 
round  with  the  cream  in  my  hand,  and  she  was 
standing  at  the  door  of  the  dairy  looking  at  me. 
I  said,  '  Weel,  Jeannie,  what  is  it  ? '  and  she 
answered,  '  Naething,  Nannie.  Naething,  Nan 
nie,'  and  so  she  went  awa'.  Oh,  Jeannie, 
Jeannie !  I'm  feared,  father,  for  the  White 
Cave,  and  her  wee  feet  upon  the  slippery 
stones." 

As  she  spoke  there  was  a  knock  at  the  door. 
Who  has  not  heard  knocks  that  seemed  instinct 
with  evil  fate  ?  This  one  smote  on  both  hearts. 
They  looked  at  each  other  with  fear  and  trem 
bling,  and  Ann  fell  into  the  nearest  seat  and 
began  to  sob  and  moan  with  apprehension. 

Andrew  went  to  the  door.  A  man  on  horse 
back  stood  there.  "Who  are  you?"  asked 
Andrew  in  a  stern  voice. 

"  I  am  Jock  Simpson  frae  Wigton,  and  I  hae 
a  letter  for  you,  Maister  Carrick." 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  75 

Andrew  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  rider  and 
took  the  letter  ;  but  ere  he  looked  at  it  said, 
"Take  this  shilling  and  go  down  to  Lucky 
Boyd's.  She  will  gie  you  and  your  beastie  a 
bite,  and  a  drink,  and  a  night's  lodging.  This 
house  is  fu'  o'  sorrow,  and  there  is  nae  room  for 
stranger  folk." 

The  man  took  the  money  and  without  an 
other  word  rode  away.  Andrew  watched  him 
until  he  had  passed  the  gate ;  then  he  re-locked 
the  door,  and  sitting  down  by  the  table,  he  laid 
the  letter  upon  it. 

Before  Jeannie's  fate  was  known,  he  had 
evinced  the  greatest  anxiety  and  emotion. 
After  reading  the  letter  which  explained  her 
absence,  he  rose  with  a  forced  calmness  and 
left  it  upon  the  table.  Ann  had  not  dared  to 
move,  still  less  to  question  him ;  but  as  he 
passed  through  the  house-place  he  stopped 
before  her,  and  said,  — 

"  You  can  read  yonder  bit  o'  shamefu'  paper. 
When  you  have  done  sae,  put  it  into  the  fire. 
And  dinna  you  daur  to  name  the  subject  o'  it 
to  me  again  !  —  Never  !  " 

Then  he  went  to  his  own  room,  and  angrily 
drew  the  bolt  across  the  door. 


76  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

Ann  lifted  Jeannie's  letter  and  read  it.  She 
did  not  wonder  at  her  father's  anger.  It  was 
the  letter  of  a  half-educated  and  over-disciplined 
child.  Jeannie  said  she  had  married  Walter 
Grahame  because  she  loved  him  better  than  all 
the  world  beside,  and  that  she  was  going  with 
Walter  to  Australia  "so  as  not  to  anger  folks." 
Then  she  asked  her  father  and  sister  to  forgive 
her,  and  to  "  try  and  think  a  bit  kindly  of  her." 
The  very  simplicity  of  the  letter,  and  its  child 
like  want  of  guile,  went  straight  to  Ann's  heart. 
She  felt  that  she  must  see  Jock  Simpson,  and 
hear  the  last  news  of  her  little  sister. 

At  the  first  streak  of  dawn  she  was  running 
swiftly  down  to  Lucky  Boyd's,  and  she  found 
Jock  saddling  his  horse  and  ready  to  leave. 

"  I  was  up  early,  Ann  Carrick,"  he  said 
kindly  ;  "  for  I  thought  I  could  maybe  win  a 
sight  o'  you  this  morn  before  Maister  Carrick 
was  round.  I  promised  your  bonnie  sister  to 
gie  you  this" — and  he  took  a  bit  of  paper 
from  his  pocket  —  "only  Maister  Carrick 
wasna  to  be  spoken  to  yestreen." 

Ann  took  the  little  packet  gratefully.  It 
contained  nothing  but  a  long  shining  tress  of 
Jeannie's  hair,  and  a  little  card  on  which  the 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  77 

runaway  had  written  in  her  large  childish  hand 
writing  :  — 

"  Nannie  !  Nannie  !  Dinna  forget  Jeannie  ! " 

"  I'll  ne'er  do  that !  I'll  ne'er  do  that !  " 
Ann  sobbed.  "  My  dear  little  Jeannie !  My 
dear  little  Jeannie ;  "  and  she  went  crying  up 
the  hill,  kissing  this  last  token  of  her  sister's 
love,  and  wetting  it  through  with  her  tears. 

It  is  a  great  blessing  in  hard  sorrow  to  have 
compelling  duties  to  attend  to.  The  cows  were 
lowing  to  be  milked  when  Ann  reached  her 
home,  and  the  breakfast  had  to  be  prepared, 
and  the  other  household  duties  to  attend  to. 
Ann  neglected  none  of  them,  though  she  went 
about  her  work  with  a  heavy  heart.  For  the 
loss  of  her  sister  was  not  the  whole  of  her 
sorrow.  She  could  not  help  feeling  keenly  the 
blasting  disappointment  of  all  her  father's 
anticipations.  The  glory  had  been  taken  from 
him.  The  harvest  of  years,  now  ready  for  his 
hand,  had  been  blighted  by  Jeannie  in  a  single 
day,  just  for  her  own  selfish  gratification. 

The  joy  of  her  cousin  Cosmo's  visit,  the 
joy  of  the  new  Kirk,  the  triumph  of  the  prin 
ciples  so  dear  to  Andrew,  the  innocent  holy 


78  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

pride  he  felt  in  seeing  his  kinsman  in  the 
pulpit  —  all  these  cups  of  gladness  had  been 
turned  into  bitterness  by  Jeannie's  selfishness. 
Such  thoughts  would  not  be  put  away ;  and 
with  all  her  love  for  her  sister,  Ann  could  not 
avoid  the  conclusion  that  Jeannie  had  dealt  her 
father  a  cruel  blow,  made  doubly  cruel  by  the 
time  and  circumstances  of  its  giving. 

All  that  day  Andrew  Carrick  remained  in 
his  room.  He  neither  ate  nor  drank.  He 
answered  none  of  Ann's  timid  inquiries  regard 
ing  his  health  or  his  wishes.  She  heard  him 
hour  after  hour  pacing  the  floor,  and  talking 
either  to  himself  or  to  his  Maker.  For  like 
the  man  of  Uz,  Andrew  Carrick  was  ever  ready 
to  enter  into  a  controversy  with  him.  It  was 
far  more  in  accord  with  his  nature  to  argue 
the  "wherefore"  of  an  affliction,  than  it  was 
to  "hold  his  peace  because  the  Lord  did  it." 

He  had  followed  the  same  course  when  his 
wife  was  suddenly  taken  from  him,  and  he  had 
justified  it  to  his  daughters.  "I  am  no  bairn," 
he  said,  "  to  take  my  punishment  and  ask  no 
questions.  I  am  a  son  wha  has  come  of  age, 
and  I  hae  the  right  to  ask  my  Father,  'Why 
hast  thou  entered  into  judgment  with  me?'" 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  79 

And  in  this  sorrow  the  inquiry  appeared  to 
Andrew  still  more  necessary. 

For  he  could  not  help  telling  himself  that 
the  dispensation  was  eminently  cruel.  He  had 
been  led  to  think  that  his  was  the  triumph  and 
the  victory ;  and  after  all,  a  Grahame  had  been 
permitted  to  steal  away  the  sweetness,  and 
leave  him  the  husks  only.  With  this  trouble 
on  his  hearthstone,  how  could  he  go  up  to 
the  sanctuary  with  songs  and  thanksgiving  ? 
He  had  thought  to  bring  his  cousin  to  his  home 
with  fatherly  pride,  and  he  was  humbled  even 
in  his  children.  In  the  bottom  of  his  heart 
there  was  that  feeling  of  resentment  which  has 
its  bitterness  in  the  sense  of  being  deceived. 
Not  even  to  himself  did  Andrew  like  to 
say  that  "  God  had  dealt  treacherously  with 
him,"  but  he  felt  that  God  had  permitted  his 
triumph  to  be  made  heartache  and  humiliation 
to  him. 

On  the  second  morning,  however,  he  appeared 
at  the  breakfast  table.  He  was  grey  and  hag 
gard,  and  had  aged  ten  years  in  the  preceding 
thirty-six  hours.  He  swallowed  a  few  mouth- 
fuls  of  his  porridge,  and  then  rose  and  went  to 
the  open  door,  and  stood  there  facing  the  sea, 


80  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

which  was  this  morning  blue  and  smiling,  and 
dimpling  with  incalculable  laughter  in  the  sun 
shine.  The  wind  blew  his  long  black  hair  from 
his  face,  and  the  keen  salt  air  appeared  to 
revive  him,  for  he  said  in  a  voice  of  mournful 
determination  :  — 

"Ann,  I  sail  go  to  Port  Braddon  this  morn 
ing.  No  one  sail  say  I  was  feared  or  shamed 
to  face  my  sorrow.  And  maybe  I  may  get  a 
word  o'  comfort  from  somewhere ;  for  there  is 
naething  but  darkness  and  silence  in  my  ain 
room." 

"  If  you  call,  He  will  answer,  father.  His 
Word  for  that." 

"  He  has  not  answered  yet." 

"  If  you  could  eat  some  breakfast  before  you 
went,  father.  It  is  a  long  ride  to  Port  Braddon 
on  an  empty  stomach." 

"I  canna  swallow  my  food — or  else  it  is 
my  thoughts  that  choke  me.  Bread  and  meat 
doesna  help  in  siccan  straits  as  Andrew  Carrick 
is  in  the  now." 

"  Father  —  you  might  meet  David  Grahame." 

"  Ay,  I  might.     It  is  a  vera  likely  thing." 

"  O  father,  forgive  me  !  but  I'm  feared,  father, 
I'm  sair  feared  —  if  you  should  lose  control 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  8 1 

o'  yoursel'  — you  hae  good  cause  —  it  is  a  sair 
temptation." 

"  There's  naething  to  fear  you,  Ann  Carrick. 
I  sail  not  sin  to  please  David  Grahame.  I 
trust  He  will  at  any  rate,  have  His  hand  that 
far  about  me." 

He  really  expected  to  see  David  Grahame. 
He  thought  he  was  sure  to  be  lying  in  wait  to 
catch  him.  And  if  so,  he  anticipated  the  storm 
of  abuse  —  "  hail  stones  and  coals  of  fire,"  he 
called  it  —  that  would  be  poured  upon  his  head. 
But  he  rode  straight  through  the  little  town 
twice  over,  and  he  never  saw  Grahame  at  all. 

With  even  more  than  his  usual  deliberation 
he  sauntered  through  the  various  streets  and 
places  of  call.  The  answer  he  had  resolved  to 
make  was  ready  on  his  tongue ;  but  no  one  said 
a  word  to  him  except  it  might  be,  perhaps,  "A 
good  day  to  you,  Carrick."  He  was  thankful  for 
the  reprieve,  and  returned  home  stronger  for  it. 
Grahame  could  not  now  say  that  "  Carrick  had 
avoided  him  ; "  and  he  might  take  a  few  days  to 
rest,  and  recover  his  mental  strength. 

He  had  intended  going  to  Edinburgh  on  the 
following  Monday,  but  he  now  determined  to 
go  at  once.  He  would  be  in  a  wilderness,  as  it 


82  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

were,  there  ;  but  near  his  own  home  every  per 
sonality  questioned  and  wounded  him.  Ann 
was  glad  of  this  decision.  She  hoped  he 
would  open  his  heart  to  his  cousin,  and  that 
Cosmo  Carrick  would  be  able  to  give  him  the 
counsel  and  sympathy  she  was  afraid  to  offer. 

For  in  some  way  Ann  felt  that  her  father 
did  not  hold  her  guiltless.  He  thought  she 
ought  to  have  watched  Jeannie  better,  and  that 
her  sex  and  sisterhood  made  her  more  respon 
sible  than  ever  he  could  be.  Indeed,  he  found 
it  hard  to  believe  that  one  sister  had  kept  from 
another  a  love  affair  going  on  for  nearly  a 
year,  some  letter  or  token,  some  slip  of  the 
tongue,  some  broken  or  kept  tryst,  might,  he 
felt  certain,  have  made  a  woman  suspicious, 
where  a  father  could  not  be  expected  to  doubt. 

Ann  was  quite  conscious  that  such  opinions 
influenced  her  father,  and  often  made  him  un 
justly  cross  and  silent  with  her.  She  had 
nothing  to  offer  against  them  but  her  simple 
asseveration.  In  the  main,  Andrew  believed  her 
to  be  innocent  of  all  conniving  with  Jeannie ; 
but  he  had  also  dark  hours  when  he  be 
lieved  differently,  and  he  made  these  hours 
very  dark  indeed  to  his  eldest  daughter. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  83 

But  even  when  he  was  most  unjust,  she 
pitied  him  greatly.  For  she  knew  that  he  was 
learning,  during  them,  a  fact  she  herself  had 
long  known — that  his  daughter  Jeannie  was 
the  apple  of  his  heart,  the  dearest  thing  on 
earth  to  him. 


CHAPTER  V. 


Oh,  shame  to  man !     Devil  with  devil  damn'd 

Firm  concord  holds ;  men  only  disagree 

Of  creatures  rational  MILTON. 

What  boots  it  at  one  gate  to  make  defence, 
And  at  another  to  let  in  the  foe. 

MILTON. 


IN  its  public  sense  Andrew  Carrick's  visit  to 
Edinburgh  was  a  great  success.  His  cousin 
Cosmo  was  greatly  pleased  at  the  invitation  so 
unanimously  extended,  and  he  gladly  promised 
to  preach  at  the  opening  of  Port  Braddon  Free 
Kirk.  He  also  gave  Andrew  good  advice  about 
the  new  communion  service,  and  introduced 
him  to  a  celebrated  silversmith,  who  was  a 
member  of  his  own  congregation.  The  buying 
of  these  altar  necessities  was  an  extraordinary 
affair  to  Carrick,  and  he  had  contemplated  the 
offering  for  many  weeks  with  an  almost  re 
ligious  pleasure.  For  he  permitted  himself 
few  extravagances,  and  this  kirk  offering  was 
really  to  the  unworldlike  giver  a  very  personal 
lavishness,  the  one  largess  of  a  lifetime. 
84 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  85 

After  a  careful  consideration,  he  bought  a 
very  handsome  service,  and  the  money  thrown 
off  its  cost  by  way  of  favour  or  discount  he  laid 
aside  to  the  last  bawbee  as  kirk  money.  For 
in  this  matter  he  had  a  quick  conscience,  and 
the  thing  he  had  mentally  promised  to  give,  he 
gave  even  with  an  over-scrupulous  generosity. 

He  had,  though,  a  kind  of  resentful  con 
sciousness  in  the  matter.  He  felt  as  if  he  had 
not  been  used  according  to  the  stipulation 
which  involved  the  service ;  but  he  could  not 
dispute  with  the  Almighty.  "  Let  him  do 
what  seemed  good  in  his  sight."  Truly  he  had 
given  him  the  desire  of  his  heart,  but  he  had 
added  sorrow  therewith  ;  and  that  was  not  what 
Andrew  had  expected. 

It  was  true  that  his  cousin  had  received  a 
unanimous  invitation.  It  was  true  that  a  Car- 
rick,  and  a  Carrick  whom  he  had  helped  into  the 
pulpit,  would  preach  the  first  sermon  in  the 
new  kirk.  It  was  true  that  Grahame  would 
know  and  hear  tell  of  this  honour.  But  then 
God,  in  granting  him  his  unspoken  prayer,  had 
permitted  shame  to  come  with  it;  and  all  the 
glory  of  his  spiritual  triumph  was  darkened  by 
his  domestic  disgrace. 


86  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

And  he  told  himself  that  in  a  matter  of  this 
world's  favour,  he  would  not  so  have  creamed  a 
kindness.  He  would  have  given  with  both 
hands,  or  not  given  at  all.  But  God  had  given 
him  honour  with  one  hand  and  reproach  with 
the  other.  Who  could  understand  the  ways  of 
this  inscrutably  severe  Jehovah  ?  So  that  in 
rendering  to  the  last  tittle  the  offering  so  condi 
tionally  made,  he  might — had  he  examined  his 
heart  —  have  discovered  there  a  proudly  con 
scious  feeling  of  returning  good  for  evil. 

He  remained  a  week  in  Edinburgh,  but  he 
never  found  a  moment  in  which  he  could  bear 
to  take  his  cousin  into  his  heart  sorrow.  In 
deed,  his  hypersensitive  honour  for  the  welfare 
of  the  new  kirk  made  him  averse  to  darken 
the  enthusiasm  of  the  minister  who  was  to 
open  its  doors  with  praise  and  songs  of  holy 
gladness.  Perhaps  —  perhaps,  when  all  the 
services  were  over,  he  might  crave  a  little 
sympathy  for  his  own  sore  disappointment ;  but 
he  knew  that  even  this  hope  was  a  faint  one, 
because  he  was  aware  of  that  feeling  of  reti 
cence  about  family  matters  which  in  the  Scots 
man  is  often  as  pronounced  as  in  the  Oriental. 

Cosmo   Carrick  saw  that  his  visitor  was  in 


THE   LONE  HOUSE.  8/ 

trouble  ;  but  he  was  too  true  a  gentleman,  and 
too  good  a  minister,  to  seek  for  ungiven  con 
fidences.  He  knew  well  that  spiritual  consola 
tion  must  be  self-evolved  to  be  of  practical 
strength  and  use.  And  as  yet  Andrew  was  far 
from  any  confession  of  needing  advice  or  sym 
pathy.  He  bravely  put  aside  all  signs  of  his 
private  anguish,  and  occupied  himself  entirely 
with  the  doings  of  the  new  Kirk,  which,  indeed, 
at  that  date  was  so  full  of  wonderful  energy  and 
splendid  generosities,  that  it  was  very  possible 
to  forget  self  in  the  enthusiasm  of  so  vital  a 
religious  revolution. 

Cosmo  returned  to  the  Lone  House  with 
Andrew ;  and  two  days  afterward  the  Free 
Kirk  at  Port  Braddon  was  consecrated  to  divine 
worship.  There  was  such  an  immense  congre 
gation  that  there  was  no  interval.  From  early 
day  until  sundown  the  voice  of  prayer  and 
psalm  and  holy  teaching  and  thanksgiving  went 
up  from  the  new  altar.  And  Cosmo  delivered 
three  distinct  sermons,  because  of  the  great 
crowd  that  had  come  to  hear  him  preach,  and 
who  could  not  be  otherwise  satisfied.  In  other 
respects  it  was  a  wonderful  opening.  There 
was  not  a  penny  of  debt  on  the  kirk  building ; 


88  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

and  the  new  communion  service,  "the  noble 
gift  of  Elder  Carrick,"  stood  in  its  pure,  shin 
ing  splendour  upon  the  holy  table  within  the 
rail. 

It  was  indeed  a  Sabbath  of  good  things,  —  a 
Sabbath  long  to  be  remembered ;  and  Cosmo 
and  Andrew  Carrick  were  the  chief  men 
throughout  all  its  glorious  hours.  What  a  time 
of  spiritual  rejoicing  it  might  have  been  to 
Andrew  but  for  that  dark  shadow  upon  his 
hearthstone  ! 

He  had  not  seen  Grahame  since  Jeannie's 
flight,  and  no  one  else  had  dared  to  mention  the 
subject  to  him.  Even  Cosmo  Carrick  had  only 
made  one  remark  which  in  any  way  referred  to 
it.  When  they  gathered  for  worship  on  the 
first  night  of  his  visit,  he  said,  — 

"  I  thought,  cousin,  you  had  two  daughters  ? " 
"  I  have  one  daughter,  cousin,  only  one." 
And  when  Cosmo  heard  Andrew's  stern  voice, 
and  saw  the  tears  falling  from  Ann's  dropped 
eyes,    he   divined    that    even   in   that    simple, 
pious  home  sorrow  had  found  herself  a  dwelling- 
place. 

Nothing  further  was  said  on  the  matter. 
Cosmo  knew  that  it  was  some  hand  crueler  than 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  89 

death's  which  had  robed  his  cousin's  home-fold  ; 
but  as  Andrew  did  not  complain,  he  could 
neither  counsel  nor  sympathise.  The  two  men 
visited  together  all  the  spots  sacred  to  the 
memory  of  the  Covenanters,  and  went  down  to 
the  famous  sea  caves,  and  even  far  out  to  sea 
in  one  of  the  fishing  smacks,  and  they  had 
much  cheery  spiritual  conversation ;  but  with 
a  Spartan  courage  Andrew  held  his  robe  tight 
over  the  wound  in  his  heart,  and  bore  the 
suffering  as  best  he  could. 

Then  in  a  few  more  days  Cosmo  Carrick 
went  back  to  Edinburgh,  and  Andrew  was  prac 
tically  alone  with  his  sorrow.  For  Ann  had 
many  duties  to  employ  her  hands  all  day  long, 
and  she  felt  also  that  her  presence  was  no  re 
lief  to  her  father.  He  did  not  talk  to  her  of 
Jeannie,  and  she  was  sure  that  he  still  blamed 
her  for  not  keeping  a  stricter  guard  over  her 
sister.  The  feeling  might  be  an  unjust  one, 
but  it  was  there  ;  and  Ann  was  quite  aware 
that  she  could  neither  reason  nor  explain  it 
away.  So  in  these  days  there  was  a  cold  and 
painful  want  of  confidence  between  Ann  Car- 
rick  and  her  unhappy  father. 

Andrew  had  indeed  taken  his  place  on  his 


9O  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

bench,  and  he  was  trying  with  all  his  might  to 
find  comfort  in  his  work.  But  shoemaking  is 
thoughtful  work ;  it  gives  heart  and  brain  free 
and  full  time  for  feeling  and  for  thought,  and 
Andrew  wofully  missed  the  sound  of  Jeannie's 
wheel  and  her  bits  of  broken  chatter —  chatter 
that  he  had  been  once  wont  to  say  "  bothered 
him."  He  could  follow  out  his  trains  of 
thought  now  ;  there  was  no  Jeannie  with  lilt 
ing  song  or  restless  movements  to  disturb  him. 

But  oh  !  how  he  missed  her  !  His  ear  ached 
for  her  voice  and  her  footstep.  And  when  he 
looked  around  and  saw  her  place  empty  on  the 
hearth-stone,  the  vacancy  was  like  a  blow  upon 
his  heart. 

He  could  not  bear  to  sit  long  in  the  house- 
place  and  sew  and  peg  at  his  bench.  He 
always  grew  restless  in  an  hour  or  two,  and 
then  he  went  into  the  garden  and  tried  to  work 
among  the  pot  herbs.  There  was  a  little  bor 
der  of  flowers  that  had  been  Jeannie's  pride 
and  sole  care.  It  was  full  of  pink  daisies  and 
pansy  blooms,  and  the  roses  were  blooming 
again.  But  where  was  Jeannie  ?  Oh,  where 
was  she?  All  Andrew's  gardening  ended  in 
such  reflections.  Then  he  would  walk  to  a 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  9 1 

stone  wall  enclosing  the  place,  and,  leaning  on 
it,  look  miserably  over  the  tossing  sea  waves. 

One  morning  he  was  in  the  garden.  He  had 
tired  himself  with  weeding,  and  was  standing 
restfully  leaning  against  his  rake.  A  boy  en 
tered  the  gate  and  gave  him  a  letter.  It  was 
from  Elder  Scott,  advising  Andrew  of  a  Kirk 
session  extraordinary,  to  consider  the  call  of  a 
minister  for  the  new  kirk,  and  requesting  him 
to  be  present  at  two  o'clock. 

He  was  rather  glad  of  the  distraction,  and 
yet  he  feared  the  visit  to  Port  Braddon.  He 
knew  that  sooner  or  later  David  Grahame 
must  be  faced,  and,  indeed,  that  the  whole 
subject  of  Jeannie's  marriage  in  its  relation  to 
the  public  was  yet  unsettled.  That  circum 
stances  had  delayed  it  so  long  was  wonderful, 
and  it  gave  him  some  pleasure  and  strength  to 
believe  that  God  had  purposely  ordered  this 
delay,  in  order  that  the  services  of  the  sanc 
tuary  at  least  should  not  be  shadowed  by  his 
domestic  misfortune.  And  there  was  such  a 
breath  of  God's  favour  to  him  in  this  reflection, 
that  it  sensibly  nerved  and  calmed  him  for 
whatever  the  afternoon  might  bring. 

The  Kirk  session  proved  to  be  a  very  stormy 


92  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

one,  and  Andrew  was  amazed  to  find  that  his 
wishes  and  opinions  were  held  in  very  small 
respect.  Indeed,  he  was  certain  that  some 
who  were  present  took  a  positive  pleasure  in 
thwarting  and  opposing  whatever  he  proposed. 
This  attitude  toward  him  was  so  unusual  and 
so  unexpected,  that  Andrew  was  hurt  and 
silenced  by  it.  And  then  he  remembered  what 
had  happened  in  his  family,  and  his  heart  ached 
and  burned,  and  he  felt  as  David  felt  when  his 
own  familiar  friend  in  whom  he  trusted,  and 
from  whom  he  expected  pity  and  love,  lifted  up 
his  heel  against  him. 

Yet  this  manner  toward  him  was  only  the 
very  natural  reaction  to  the  decided  promi 
nence  given  to  the  Carricks  in  the  opening 
ceremonies.  "  We  hae  enou'  o'  them  Car- 
ricks,"  was  the  private  opinion  of  many  who 
had  been  the  most  fulsome  in  their  respects 
and  civilities.  But  Andrew  was  not  aware  of 
this  feeling,  and  his  knowledge  of  human  nature 
was  limited.  He  did  not  understand  that  the 
average  man  and  woman  always  long  to  pull 
down  the  idol  they  set  up ;  and  that  wherever 
they  praise  publicly,  they  are  sure  to  take  the 
first  opportunity  to  unsay  their  words  of  com 
mendation. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  93 

Andrew's  nature  was  too  honest  and  primi 
tive  to  look  for  the  real  feeling  beneath  the  evi 
dent  one,  and  therefore  he  at  once  concluded 
that  all  the  covert  insults  he  received  were  the 
open  expression  of  the  disgrace  which  Jeannie 
had  brought  upon  his  hitherto  spotless  name. 
And  oh  !  how  hard  it  is  to  be  wounded  in  the 
house  of  one's  friends !  These  men  should 
have  held  his  hands,  and  looked  comfort  into 
his  eyes,  and  strengthed  his  heart,  and  instead 
of  that,  they  smote  him  right  and  left  with 
scornful  shrugs  and  slights  of  every  kind. 

He  left  the  kirk  vestry  then  in  a  state  of  sup 
pressed  indignation.  He  felt  that  he  had  been 
wantonly  and  purposely  offended.  But  how  can 
a  man  complain  because  he  is  not  honoured 
enough  ?  Should  he  do  so,  what  eyes  of  won 
der  !  What  insulting  explanations !  What 
covert  reproofs  he  would  invite  !  Andrew  bore 
the  changed  faces  of  his  brethren  as  long  as  he 
could,  but  finally  said,  — 

"  I  am  sae  far  in  the  minority,  brethren,  that 
I  will  not  require  to  sit  oot  the  session,  forbye 
I  hae  a  great  sorrow  o'  my  ain,  and  am  not  in 
the  way  o'  giving  counsel.  Sae,  if  Elder  Scott 
will  tak'  my  chair,  I'll  awa'  to  my  hame.  For 


94  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

I  need  to  kneel  in  God's  council  chamber,  far 
mair  than  to  be  sitting  in  that  o'  the  Kirk's. 
Weel,  then,  I'll  bid  you  a'  a  gude-afternoon,  and 
may  His  wisdom  guide  you  to  a  right  choice." 

Perhaps  his  full  heart  had  hoped  thus  to  win 
a  few  words  or  even  looks  of  sympathy.  But 
he  might  as  well  have  spoken  to  the  table  as 
to  the  men  who  were  sitting  round  it.  Elder 
Scott  thought  in  his  heart  that  "  Carrick  might 
for  once  keep  his  ain  affairs  outside  the  Kirk's 
business."  Others  were  aggravated  by  the  plea 
for  sympathy  they  could  not  give ;  and  some 
even  felt  that  it  was  a  good  thing  for  Andrew 
Carrick's  pride  to  be  humbled  a  wee. 

Altogether  the  various  members  of  the  session 
saw  him  depart  without  any  kind  feeling.  As 
the  door  closed  behind  him  they  glanced  un- 
derstandingly  at  one  another.  They  had 
managed  by  some  unspoken  compact  to  thor 
oughly  humiliate  him,  and  to  make  him  feel 
that  any  previous  honour  shown  had  been 
because  he  could  be  serviceable  to  the  Kirk, 
and  a  convenience  to  themselves.  Dimly 
sensible  of  this  wrong,  Andrew  mounted  his 
pony  in  a  whirl  of  outraged  feeling  and  — 
"  O  Jeannie  !  Jeannie  ! "  his  very  soul  cried 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  95 

out,  half  in  anger  and  half  in  amazing  pity, 
for  the  suffering  and  shame  she  had  brought 
to  him. 

As  he  went  slowly  down  the  main  street  he 
met  David  Grahame.  Grahame,  indeed,  had 
been  watching  for  him.  He  had  been  in  Glas 
gow  and  Liverpool  looking  for  his  runaway  son  ; 
and  he  had  neither  found  him,  nor  yet  obtained 
any  satisfactory  information  regarding  his  des 
tination.  He  was  now  ready  for  Andrew.  He 
was  full  of  anger  and  bitterness,  and  the  sight 
of  Carrick  riding  calmly  home  from  a  Kirk 
session  was  more  than  he  could  endure.  Into 
the  middle  of  the  street  he  ran,  and  seizing 
Andrew's  bridle,  he  shouted,  — 

"  Weel,  you  auld  sinner,  do  you  ken  that 
your  daughter  has  run  awa'  wi'  my  son  Walter  ! 
A  nice  kind  o'  a  lass,  to  beguile  a  decent  lad  ! 
Think  shame  o'  yoursel'  and  of  a'  belonging 
to  you  !  " 

"  I  ken  weel  that  my  daughter  —  against  my 
express  commands  —  has  married  Walter  Gra 
hame.  I  did  my  best  for  the  lass  ;  but  the 
wicked  will  go  to  the  wicked." 

"  Then,  you,  your  ain  sel'  of  a'  men,  will  go 
to  destruction.  And  you  may  be  vera  certain, 


96  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

there  is  little  marriage  in  the  matter.  Walter 
isna  sic  a  fool  as  to  marry  a  light  lass  like 
Jeannie  Carrick.  What  for  should  he  ?  " 

"  If  you  daur  to  say  the  like  o'  them  words 
again,  Grahame,  I'll  lay  my  whip  across  your 
face.  You  blackguard,  to  file  a  woman's  good 
name ! " 

"  Lay  your  whip  across  my  face  !  You  will, 
will  you  !  Do  so,  and  I'll  have  you  put  under 
lock  and  key  for  assault,  Elder  Carrick  !  You  ! 
You  straight  frae  a  Kirk  session  in  your  new 
fangled  Kirk  !  You !  You !  threatening  hon 
est  men  wi'  a  horsewhip!  A  bonnie  Free 
Kirker  you  are,  Elder  Carrick  !  Think  shame 
o'  yourself ! " 

"  I  do  think  shame  o'  mysel'  for  breaking  a 
word  wi'  the  like  o'  you.  Let  go  my  beast." 

"  I'll  hold  him  as  long  as  I  want  to  hold  him, 
and  I'll  mak'  you  listen  to  whate'er  I  want  to 
say." 

"  Vera  weel ;  I  can  bide  your  time.  Say  the 
worst  word  in  your  sinfu'  heart.  I'm  no  heed 
ing  it."  And  Carrick  shut  his  mouth  tight, 
and,  gazing  over  the  tossing  waves  at  the  har 
bour  bar,  seemed,  in  his  concentration  of  soul, 
to  have  closed  both  eyes  and  ears. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  97 

A  crowd  speedily  gathered  around  them  —  a 
crowd  of  idle  boys  and  idle  women,  whose 
sympathies  were  decidedly  with  the  more  offen 
sive  and  belligerent  Grahame.  They  stood 
around  gaping  with  open  eyes  and  mouths,  and 
tittering  laughs,  while  Grahame  mocked  both 
at  Andrew's  piety  and  Jeannie's  virtue.  Pas 
sionate  words  of  hatred  and  scorn  lashed  An 
drew  like  whip  cords,  and  he  suffered  in  this 
public  exhibition  agonies  which  no  mortal 
words  could  render. 

But  calm  as  a  man  of  stone  Andrew  Carrick 
sat,  while  the  storm  of  insult  beat  around  him. 
The  mouth  which  always  betrays  a  weak  man 
only  indicated  on  Andrew's  face  a  gathering 
together  of  will  and  purpose.  It  drew  tighter, 
but  it  never  trembled.  At  length  a  man  in  the 
crowd  cried  out : 

"  Grahame,  dinna  choke  yoursel'.  You'll  be 
having  a  fit.  Let  the  ould  Whig  gae.  His 
daughter  isna  worth  the  words  you  are  spend 
ing  on  her." 

"  Even  sae,"  answered  Grahame.  "  You  are 
mair  than  right,  Sandy  Malcolm.  And  it  is 
weel  kent  that  the  light-o'-love  hussy  is  only 
paying  her  father  back  the  wage  he  has 


98  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

earned.  I'll  tak'  your  advice,  Malcolm,"  and 
with  a  parting  epithet  of  inexcusable  infamy 
and  a  chorus  of  foolish  laughter  Andrew  was 
released. 

For  Grahame  saw  that  it  was  becoming 
every  moment  more  impossible  to  move  his 
victim  from  the  position  of  a  "  noble  not  car 
ing,"  which  Andrew  had  taken  ;  and  also  that 
the  better  class  of  citizens  were  deciding  in 
Andrew's  favour.  He,  therefore,  judged  it  best 
to  cease  while  the  popular  feeling  was  with 
him.  He  had  no  wish  to  turn  his  attack  into 
defeat.  As  he  said  afterward  to  his  family, 
"  Bairns,  it  is  a  grand  thing  to  know  when  you 
hae  said  the  last  ill  word  you  can  safely  say." 

As  soon  as  he  found  his  bridle  loose,  Andrew 
rode  away  without  deigning  to  give  Grahame  a 
word  or  even  a  look.  He  went  at  his  usual  slow 
pace,  and  spoke  to  several  acquaintances  in  his 
ordinary  quiet  manner.  But  oh  !  the  volcano 
of  rage  and  shame  and  hatred  in  his  soul !  In 
that  hour  Andrew  Carrick  had  a  revelation  ac 
to  the  possibilities  of  suffering  of  which  the 
soul  is  capable,  and  which  all  of  us  occasionally 
get  glimpses  of  in  our  dreams. 

Most  men  would  have  relieved  their  feelings 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  99 

by  hard  riding ;  but  hard  riding  or  physical  ex 
ertion  of  any  kind  was  no  relief  to  this  man  in 
his  extremity  of  mental  anguish.  Trouble  had 
to  be  spiritually  fought  out  with  Andrew,  and 
repose  and  solitude  were  necessary  for  this 
strong  conflict.  Still,  there  was  an  intense 
human  element  in  Carrick's  deepest  nature, 
and  this  element  in  such  an  hour  of  bitterness 
craved  some  human  sympathy. 

As  soon,  therefore,  as  he  reached  the  covert 
of  his  own  home,  his  natural  craving  over 
powered  for  a  time  all  other  ones,  and  Ann 
coming  in  from  the  byre  found  him  sitting  on 
the  hearth  with  his  head  bowed  in  his  hands, 
and  sobbing  with  all  the  abandon  of  a  sorrowful 
and  injured  child.  It  was  a  strange  and  pitiful 
sight.  In  a  kind  of  terror  she  knelt  down  be 
side  him,  able  only  to  say,  "  My  father,  my  dear 
father !  Whatever  grief  has  come  to  you  ?  " 

Broken-hearted,  indeed,  Andrew  Carrick  must 
have  felt  ere  he  could  humble  himself  to  seek 
consolation  from  any  woman.  "  God's  strength 
through  my  ain  strength,"  had  hitherto  always 
been  sufficient  for  him.  He  could  have  gone 
to  a  fiery  martyrdom  leaning  on  this  staff.  But 
the  shame  and  insult  which  had  come  to  him 


IOO  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

that  afternoon,  both  in  the  session  and  on  the 
public  street,  were  different  things. 

In  a  fiery  trial  of  his  faith  he  would  have  had 
the  sympathy  of  angels  and  of  men,  and  the 
promise  of  the  crown  of  life  everlasting.  But 
this  was  a  fight  with  foes  so  mean  and  so  cruel, 
that  even  victory  over  them  was  such  a  shame 
and  pain  as  he  was  then  experiencing. 

He  felt  constrained  to  tell  Ann  all  about  this 
trial ;  all  its  wrongs  and  all  its  shame  and  scath 
ing  insult.  And  Ann  wept  with  him.  She 
suffered  in  all  her  father  had  suffered.  She 
winced  and  shivered  at  the  stings  and  arrows 
of  cruel  speech  which  Andrew  had  taken  with 
an  apparently  stoical  indifference.  But  she 
indignantly  repudiated  Grahame's  insinuations 
against  her  sister's  virtue  and  honour. 

"  Jeannie  may  have  run  awa'  to  get  married," 
she  said  sadly;  "but  Jeannie  is  married;  I  am 
sure  of  that,  father,  as  I  am  sure  of  death 
itself." 

On  this  positive  statement  she  took  her  stand, 
and  Andrew  grew  calmer  and  stronger  under 
her  assertions ;  but  yet  when  she  laid  the  Bible 
upon  the  table  for  the  evening  exercise,  he 
would  not  open  it. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  IOI 

"  My  soul  is  full  of  hatred  and  all  uncharita- 
bleness,  Ann,"  he  said.  "It  would  be  like 
touching  the  ark  with  unclean  hands.  I  shall 
hae  to  stand  afar  off  this  night.  There  is  only 
one  prayer  for  me,  and  I  dinna  feel  as  if  I  can 
say  it  yet." 

Very  early  in  the  morning  Ann  found  him 
saddling  his  pony ;  and  he  answered  her  look  of 
astonishment  and  inquiry  thus  :  — 

"  I  am  going  to  find  oot  whether  Jeannie  is 
married  or  not,  Ann.  I  am  going  to  find  that 
oot,  if  I  have  to  go  to  Australia  for  the  facts." 

"Jeannie  is  married,  father.  Jeannie  has 
been  selfish  and  disobedient,  but  she  isna  a 
wicked  woman.  I'll  let  no  one  say  that  to  my 
face ;  no,  not  even  you,  father." 

"  I'll  need  to  hae  the  facts.  If  I  dinna  come 
back  in  twa  weeks,  you  will  find  a  letter  in  my 
room  anent  siller  and  the  like  o'  that." 

"  But  hae  your  porridge,  father  "  —  and  then 
Ann  could  not  keep  back  her  tears  —  "  and  say 
a  kind  word  to  me  before  you  go,  father." 

"  I  canna  eat  a  mouthfu',  Ann.  As  for  your- 
sel',  my  dear  bairn,  may  God  bless  you !  You 
have  been  a  good  daughter  to  me  a'  the  days 
of  your  life." 


IO2  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

He  drew  her  to  his  side  a  moment  and  stroked 
her  head,  then  with  a  dark,  sorrow-stricken  face, 
he  mounted  his  pony  and  rode  away. 

In  less  than  a  week  he  was  home  again,  and 
when  he  was  yet  a  long  way  off  Ann  knew 
from  his  bearing  that  he  had  been  successful  in 
his  journey.  This  time  he  did  not  consider  it 
necessary  to  dally  with  his  good  news,  for  as 
soon  as  Ann  met  him  he  said,  — 

"  You  were  right,  Ann.  Grahame  is  a  liar.  I 
hae  not  a  doubt  anent  Jeannie's  marriage 
now." 

"  I  never  doubted  Jeannie's  marriage  one 
moment,  father.  Jeannie  isna  wicked." 

He  turned  on  her  passionately,  and  cried  out, 
"What  is  that  you  say?  Jeannie  is  just  the 
maist  wicked  lass  that  I  e'er  heard  tell  o'." 

"Ither  lasses  have  run  a\va'  to  be  married, 
father." 

"  Ither  lasses  doubtless  hae  run  awa'  to  be 
married.  But  nae  lass  e'er  had  such  boundaries 
to  break  through,  and  such  ties  to  burst  asunder, 
as  Jeannie  Carrick  had  —  ties  which  go  back 
through  centuries  and  which  reach  upward  even 
to  her  mother  in  heaven.  Never  name  her 
again  in  my  hearing.  And  set  by  that  wheel 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  1 03 

and  stool  whar  I'll  never  set  my  eyes  on  them 
mair." 

The  next  day  he  went  into  Port  Braddon  and 
sent  the  bellman  round  the  town  with  the  fol 
lowing  information :  — 

"This  is  to  give  notice  —  Jeannie  Carrick,  of 
Port  Braddon  parish,  youngest  daughter  of 
Andrew  Carrick,  of  Carricks,  and  Walter  Gra- 
hame,  of  Port  Braddon,  were  married  on  the 
twenty-fourth  of  April,  by  the  Rev.  John  Ker, 
of  St.  Andrew's  Kirk,  Glasgow." 

Grahame  laughed  the  notice  to  scorn.  "  It 
is  a  lie,"  he  cried,  "  a  lie  all  through."  He 
ordered  the  bellman  to  desist.  Andrew,  who 
was  by  his  side,  commanded  him  authorita 
tively  to  proceed.  They  were  soon  followed 
by  a  crowd,  and  the  contention  grew  so 
fierce  that  some  of  the  respectable  citizens 
interfered. 

"Carrick  is  putting  a  lie,  a  damned  lie, 
through  the  town  ! "  shouted  Grahame. 

"  It  is  the  truth,"  answered  Carrick. 

"  Let  him  prove  it !  Let  him  prove  it ! "  a 
chorus  of  voices  demanded. 

At  this  moment  a  douce  spruce  little  man 
stood  forward.  It  was  the  Earl  of  Galloway's 


104  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

factor.  He  touched  Andrew  civilly,  and  said, 
"  Mister  Carrick,  show  your  proofs,  and  put  an 
end  to  this  disturbance." 

"  I  saw  the  marriage  in  the  kirk  registry.  I 
spoke  wi'  the  minister  wha  married  them.  I 
should  think  that  was  proof  enou'." 

"  You  will  hae  a  copy  of  the  registry,  doubt 
less  ?  "  asked  the  factor. 

"No."  Andrew  had  only  thought  of  satisfy 
ing  himself.  "  I  took  no  copy  of  what  is  safe 
and  sure,"  Andrew  answered  dourly. 

Now,  the  factor  hated  the  Free  Kirkers,  and 
he  hated  Andrew  most  of  all.  He  shook  his 
head  and  shrugged  his  shoulders  doubtfully,  as 
he  replied, — 

"  It  is  a  great  pity,  Mister  Carrick.  You  should 
have  brought  a  copy  of  the  registry.  Plenty  of 
folk  would  believe  '  the  lines '  that  will  not  take 
your  word  for  them." 

"  I  tell  you,  I  talked  with  the  minister  wha 
married  them." 

"  You  didn't !  You  didn't !  It  is  a  lie  a' 
together,  friends  !  "  said  Grahame ;  and  then 
turning  to  Andrew  he  added,  "  The  truth  isna 
in  you,  Andrew  Carrick,  and  it  never  was  in 
any  o'  the  Carrick  line," 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  10$ 

Then  in  a  moment  Andrew  lost  control  of 
himself.  Passion  blazed  in  his  face,  and  im 
parted  an  incredible  majesty  to  his  person. 
His  strength,  really  great,  was  enormously  ex 
aggerated  by  a  rage  almost  supernatural  in  its 
intensity.  He  seized  Grahame  by  the  throat. 
He  shook  him  as  he  might  have  shaken  a  child. 
He  flung  him  dazed  and  breathless  upon  the 
ground  at  his  feet.  A  movement  of  his  arms 
scattered  the  crowd  in  a  moment.  Some  of 
them  carried  Grahame  to  his  home,  the  rest 
went  up  the  street  discussing  the  quarrel. 

There  was  no  fear  of  further  interruption. 
Men  kept  well  out  of  the  reach  of  Andrew 
Carrick's  strong  arms.  He  escorted  the  bell 
man  not  once,  but  twice,  through  the  town, 
and  when  his  duty  was  accomplished  he  rode 
slowly  home.  His  anger  carried  him  bravely 
past  both  friends  and  enemies.  Indeed,  he  was 
in  a  mood  to  assure  himself  that  he  did  well 
to  be  angry ;  and  he  passed  the  whole  night 
in  arguing  the  point  clearly  to  this  decision. 
When  the  morning  came  he  had  quite  convinced 
himself  that  he  had  done  right. 

"And  they  will  be  queer  folk  that  blame 
me,"  he  said  to  Ann.  "  There's  few  that  would 


106  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

have  endured  such  contradiction  and  ill-will 
from  sinners  as  long  as  I  have  tholed  it.  And 
I  am  glad  that  I  was  strengthened  to  gie  David 
Grahame  the  knock-down  he  ought  to  have  had 
lang,  lang  syne." 


CHAPTER  VI. 

By  the  thick  night 

When  the  darkness  is  deep  and  long ! 
He  hath  not  forsook  thee  nor  hated  1 

By  His  mercies  I  say, 
The  life  which  shall  come  shall  be  better 

Than  the  life  of  to-day. 

Koran. 

FOR  several  days  there  was  a  great  quiet 
in  the  Lone  House.  The  May  storm  beat 
against  the  windows  and  the  pouring  rain  soon 
made  the  moor-road  impassable.  Even  the 
highway  running  past  Andrew's  house  was 
deserted,  except  by  the  postman  and  the  weekly 
carrier,  and  by  one  chance  rider  whose  person 
ality  and  business  Ann  vainly  puzzled  herself 
over. 

When  the  fine  weather  came  again,  it  brought 
a  measure  of  comfort  to  Andrew.  No  action 
had  been  taken  concerning  his  assault  on  David 
Grahame,  and  he  now  felt  sure  that  none  would 
be  taken. 

"  What  for  would  they  be  checking  me  ? "  he 
said  to  Ann  one  day  as  they  were  eating  their 

107 


IO8  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

dinner  together,  nearly  a  week  after  the  event. 
"  Every  ane  o'  them  knew  well  I  was  right. 
They  a'  heard  the  evil  tongue  o'  Grahame,  and 
few  o'  them  wad  have  borne  it  sae  lang  and  sae 
patiently  as  I  have  done.  It  would  be  a  fine 
thing  indeed  to  check  a  father  wha  was  just 
defending  a  woman's  honour,  and  that  woman 
his  ain  daughter.  Dinna  you  think  sae,  Ann?  " 

"  I  think,  nay,  I  am  sure,  you  did  quite  right, 
father ;  and  nane  can  say  the  different  word," 
answered  Ann,  with  an  air  of  impregnable 
conviction. 

"As  for  David  Grahame,  he  is  a  stiff-necked, 
bad-hearted,  bad-tongued  creature ;  and  words 
are  wasted  on  the  like  o'  him.  Jedburgh  justice 
is  a'  such-like  men  care  for  —  a  word  and  a 
blow,  and  the  blow  first.  Some  men  are  aye 
bairns.  They  canna  be  reasoned  wi'.  There 
is  naething  for  them  but  chas-tise-ment !  Nae- 
thing !  " 

"  I  dinna  think,  father,  that  any  good  man  or 
woman  in  Port  Braddon  will  give  you  a  word 
of  blame." 

"  I  dinna  see  how  they  can,  Ann.  It  is  a 
poor  man  or  woman  wha  doesna  stand  by  their 
ain  —  as  far  as  they  truthfully  can." 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  1 09 

But  Andrew  was  mistaken.  The  popular 
sympathy  was  very  much  with  Grahame. 
Walter  Grahame  was  his  father's  only  son,  and 
the  natural  heir  to  the  large  business  he  had 
built  up.  Men  thought  a  great  deal  of  that 
circumstance.  They  could  most  of  them  put 
themselves  in  David  Grahame's  place,  and  feel 
with  him.  They  never  thought  of  Andrew  as 
losing  a  daughter ;  most  of  them  considered 
that  Jeannie  Carrick  had  made  a  good  marriage, 
and  they  had  no  doubt  that  privately  Andrew 
was  well  satisfied. 

Again,  people  rarely  judge  a  cause  by  great 
principles.  Personal  motives  of  the  meaner 
kinds  are  both  judge  and  jury  in  such  affairs 
as  the  quarrel  between  Carrick  and  Grahame ; 
and  these  were  not  far  to  seek.  In  the  first 
place  it  is  a  dangerous  thing  to  give  gifts. 

"He  has  gi'en  a  siller  service  to  the  new 
kirk,  and  so  he  expects  to  be  held  as  aboon 
a'  reproof,"  said  the  envious  who  had  given 
nothing. 

"And  thae  daughters  o'  Carrick's,  they  always 
did  keep  themsel's  to  themsel's,  as  if  they  were 
better  than  the  lave  o'  folk!  It  wasna  right 
for  them  to  sing  songs.  It  wasna  right  for 


IIO  THE  LONE   HOUSE. 

them  to  dance  a  bit  reel.  They  couldna  be  out 
after  the  night  came.  They  were  just  to  be 
set  as  patterns  and  examples  o'er  us,  I  trow ! " 

"  Andrew  Carrick  is  an  overly-righteous  man. 
Nane  but  he  and  his  were  among  the  godly. 
I'm  not  displeased  that  his  pride  should  have  a 
tumble.  A  cross-grained  man  he  was,  and 
never  a  smile  on  his  lips  for  anybody." 

"And  that  set  up  wi'  himsel'  about  his  cou 
sin's  preaching  !  You  wad  hae  thought  there 
had  never  been  a  sermon  preached  in  Port 
Braddon  before  that  Sabbath  day.  Did  you 
see  the  face  on  him  as  he  went  round  wi'  the 
plate?" 

"  Ay,  did  I !  It  was  enough  to  mak'  folk 
break  the  Sawbath,  and  break  the  peace,  e'en  in 
the  kirk  itsel'.  Thae  Carricks  !  I  have  heard 
my  father  say  '  Carricks  all  baud  themselves 
like  a  sermon.'  It  was  always  'you  shouldna  do 
this — or  you  should  do  that.'  Now  they  can 
sit  themselves  down  a  wee,  and  think  o'er  their 
own  shortcomings." 

"And  the  pride  o'  the  creature  !  The  Gra- 
hames  are  aboon  the  auld  shoemaker's  kind,  I 
wot  weel.  David  Grahame  has  a  big  business 
to  his  name,  and  Walter  —  the  handsome  lad  — 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  Ill 

was  his  one  son.  I  feel  sorry  for  Grahame, 
and  I  think  he  had  a  gude  right  to  speak  his 
mind." 

"  I  wouldn't  wonder  if  Carrick  himsel'  kent 
weel  enough  what  was  going  on  between  his 
daughter  and  Walter  Grahame." 

"  He  couldna  help  but  know  it.  Peter  Loch- 
rigg  told  my  man  that  he  had  seen  the  young 
things  colloguing  together  for  a  year  at  least. 
And  it  isna  to  be  believed,  that  Ann  Car- 
rick  wasn't  '  in  '  the  affair  from  beginning  to 
end." 

"  I  think  Peter  Lochrigg  ought  to  have  told 
Carrick  what  he  saw  and  thought." 

"  What  for  then  ?  If  he  had  daured  to  sus 
picion  Andrew's  daughter,  he  wad  have  angered 
the  auld  man.  And  you  ken  Peter  is  a  tenant 
of  Andrew's,  and  at  his  will  from  quarter  to 
quarter.  He  left  Carrick  to  order  his  ain  house 
hold.  Few  men  hae  a  grander  idea  o'  their 
capabilities  that  way.  I  don't  blame  Peter  for 
not  interfering  in  Carrick's  household." 

"Neither  do  I.  He  would  have  got  small 
thanks  and  much  ill-will  for  his  pains  and  pay 
wha  did." 

Thus  and  so  the  whole  little  community  dis- 


112  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

cussed  the  quarrel  between  Grahame  and  Car- 
rick.  Scarcely  a  voice  was  raised  in  Carrick's 
favour.  He  had  always  committed  the  unpardon 
able  sin  of  being  in  many  respects  better  than 
his  neighbours.  He  paid  his  debts  promptly,  a 
thing  other  people  did  not  do.  He  would 
surfer  no  gossip,  much  less  slander,  in  his  pres 
ence,  "as  if  folks  could  always  talk  of  religion." 
His  industry  shamed  the  idle ;  and  his  strict 
temperance  was  a  constant  reproach  to  those 
who  liked  a  nearly  constant  glass  of  toddy. 
His  generosity  to  the  kirk,  and  his  charity  to 
the  poor,  made  the  selfish  and  avaricious  un 
comfortable  ;  while  the  purity  of  his  morals 
offended  those  who  were  less  pure.  Indeed, 
his  very  gifts  in  prayer  and  exhortation  were 
causes  of  envy. 

In  the  neighbourhood  of  the  slanderous,  the 
lazy,  the  selfish,  the  immoral,  and  the  hypocrit 
ical,  how  could  such  a  man  expect  to  have 
friends  ?  Now  the  good  Andrew  Carrick  had 
made  a  slip  !  Now  his  daughter  Jeannie  had 
made  herself  a  town-talk  !  Oh  how  good  a  thing 
it  was  to  every  one!  Even  the  better  class, 
and  the  very  kirk-goers,  felt  it  to  be  a  pleasant 
thing  to  shake  their  heads,  and  sigh,  and  quote 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  113 

Scripture  against  poor  Andrew  Carrick  in  his 
sorrow  and  his  misfortune. 

So  that  when  Grahame  was  able  to  bring  his 
enemy  before  the  Magistrates,  the  whole  feel 
ing  of  Port  Braddon  was  against  Andrew. 
Grahame  had  strong  personal  influence  ;  and 
the  Earl's  factor  was  almost  all  powerful  in 
civil  matters.  He  had  helped  Grahame  to  tor 
ture  Andrew  beyond  endurance,  and  he  now 
stood  shoulder  to  shoulder  with  Grahame  in 
his  prosecution  of  Carrick  for  "  assaulting 
David  Grahame." 

Many  witnesses  were  examined,  and  all  of 
them  described  Grahame's  offence  as  "  a  wheen 
angry  words  no  worth  the  minding."  Andrew 
could  only  find  one  man  who  had  seen  the 
quarrel  as  he  saw  it,  and  this  was  the  poor 
bellman. 

"  The  bellman  !  "  cried  Grahame's  lawyer 
with  scorn.  "  The  poor  creature  was  more 
than  half -drunk,  as  he  always  is ;  the  condition 
is  chronic  with  him.  Your  Honour  will  not 
find  him  any  other  way  twice  in  a  twelve 
months." 

It  was,  after  all,  but  a  sham  trial,  for  the 
semblance  of  justice  was  not  strong  enough  to 


114  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

put  aside  personal  and  party  influence.  For 
even  the  magistrate  was  prejudiced  against 
Andrew  as  a  Radical  in  politics,  and  a  Free 
Kirker  in  religion.  So  Andrew's  decided  retal 
iation  to  Grahame's  "  wheen  angry  words  "  was 
considered  an  unjust  one. 

"Words  for  words  are  fair  currency,"  said 
the  Judge  ;  "  but  if  a  man  answers  words  with 
blows,  he  must  pay  the  penalty."  A  very  heavy 
fine  was  imposed  on  Carrick,  and  he  had  also  all 
the  expenses  of  the  trial  to  meet ;  added  to 
which  the  magistrate  thought  it  within  his  duty 
to  reprove  Carrick  for  setting  such  a  bad  ex 
ample  of  lawlessness  :  — 

"  A  man  of  your  standing,  Mister  Carrick," 
he  said  sternly,  "  is  looked  up  to ;  and  I  am 
sorry  to  say  you  have  disappointed  your  friends, 
and  given  an  evil  precedent  to  the  young  men 
of  Port  Braddon.  A  Kirk  elder  before  the  bar 
for  assault  is  not  a  gratifying  sight  to  any 
respectable  citizen." 

Andrew  did  not  open  his  mouth  in  reply. 
He  had  gone  into  court  prepared  for  this  result, 
and  he  dourly  took  a  canvas  bag  out  of  his 
pocket,  and  laid  down  the  sovereigns  with  the 
air  of  a  man  who  had  been  allowed  a  certain 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  11$ 

satisfaction,  and  was  now  willing  to  pay  for  it. 
Every  gold  piece  that  dirled  on  the  oak  table 
had  its  say,  and  expressed  for  Andrew  in  its 
very  ring  the  unmitigated  scorn  he  felt  for  the 
whole  travesty  of  justice.  Indeed,  he  managed 
to  make  a  great  many  people  feel  very  uncom 
fortable,  and  to  effect  a  swift  though  useless 
doubt  as  to  the  fairness  of  his  treatment. 

Then  he  went  home  without  a  word  to  friend 
or  foe.  Those  even  who  felt  a  shade  of  regret 
or  kindness  did  not  care  to  disturb  the  set 
antagonism  of  his  resentful  countenance.  He 
rode  back  to  the  Lone  House  very  slowly.  It 
was  raining  and  blowing,  but  he  felt  neither 
the  rain  nor  the  wind.  Little  did  he  care 
that  his  clothing  was  wet  through ;  for  the 
sting  of  his  troubles  was  spiritual,  and  mere 
creature  discomforts  had  no  power  to  annoy 
him. 

It  was  because  God  —  his  God  —  had  hidden 
His  face  from  him  that  reproach  had  broken 
his  heart ;  and  as  he  let  his  pony  carry  him 
homeward  at  its  own  pace,  he  was  saying  over 
and  over  to  his  sorrow  such  verses  from  the 
Fifty-seventh  and  Sixty-ninth  and  other  Psalms 
as  suited  his  ideas  of  his  own  condition. 


Il6  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

Ann  saw  how  it  was  with  him.  She  per 
suaded  him  to  change  his  clothing,  and  made 
him  a  cup  of  tea,  and  then  she  sat  down  by  his 
side,  in  case  he  wanted  to  talk  to  her  of  what 
had  happened.  But  that  night  he  said  nothing 
to  his  daughter.  After  refreshing  himself  he 
took  out  his  bankbook,  and  he  had  a  very  black 
hour  with  it. 

Even  the  most  generous  men  have  fits  of 
parsimony,  and  Andrew  was  not  a  generous 
man  except  when  his  religious  sensibilities 
were  touched.  His  face  darkened  visibly  as 
he  looked  at  his  balance  ;  for  one  thing  or  an 
other  had  made  a  great  void  in  the  gathered 
gold  of  three  generations.  That  night,  after 
adding  to  all  his  other  unusual  expenses  the 
amount  which  David  Grahame  had  cost  him, 
Andrew  Carrick  felt  himself  to  be  a  very  poor 
man. 

The  worst  part  of  his  punishment,  however, 
came  from  the  ecclesiastical,  and  not  the  civil 
court.  There  was  a  special  Kirk  session  called 
to  consider  Carrick's  case ;  and  though  he  was 
allowed  to  plead  his  own  cause,  he  found  no 
active  sympathisers.  All  the  members  of  the 
session  after  listening  to  him,  in  more  or  less 


THE  LONE   HOUSE.  1 1/ 

degree,  refused  to  see  any  valid  excuse  for  his 
conduct. 

Elder  Scott  spoke  for  his  brethren.  He  re 
minded  Andrew  that  the  new  Kirk  was  yet  in 
its  infancy,  and  that  he  had  committed  a  great 
sin  against  its  good  name :  "  It  behooved  those 
set  as  fathers  over  it  to  be  of  irreproachable 
life  and  conversation.  There  had  been  a  great 
scandal.  It  was  very  prejudicial  to  Free  Kirk 
interests ;  "  and  everything  which  Andrew  had 
done  for  Free  Kirk  interests  was  quite  forgotten 
in  the  one  thing  which  was  supposed  to  be  in 
imical  to  them. 

The  new  minister  was  particularly  severe 
about  the  circumstance.  He  was  a  young  man 
fresh  from  his  university,  and  he  had  all  the 
callowness  and  pomposity  of  youth  about  him. 
Like  the  majority  of  young  men  he  was  inflated 
with  the  great  things  he  was  going  to  do,  and 
blandly  indifferent  to  all  that  others  had  done 
before  him.  Dr.  Chalmers  and  "  the  great 
Four  Hundred  "  had  doubtless  had  their  mis 
sion  ;  but  this  young  man  had  an  idea  that  it 
was  mainly  to  prepare  his  way  for  him.  He 
was  completely  hurt  that  such  a  disgrace  should 
have  befallen  his  first  kirk,  and  he  proposed 


Il8  THE  LONE   HOUSE. 

that  Mister  Carrick  should  be  deposed — he 
hoped  temporarily — from  his  office  as  ruling 
elder. 

The  motion  was  solemnly  carried.  Not  one 
present  stood  up  to  make  a  demurrer.  Not 
one  opened  his  mouth  to  remind  the  session 
that  if  Andrew  had  done  the  new  Kirk  a  wrong, 
he  had  also  done  it  many  favours — that  indeed 
it  owed  its  very  existence  in  Port  Braddon  to 
the  gifts  and  exertions  of  Andrew  Carrick. 

And  Andrew  was  far  too  proud  to  speak  a 
word  on  this  side  of  the  question  for  himself. 
He  might  truly  have  told  the  young  minister 
that  he  owed  his  pulpit  to  Andrew  Carrick,  and 
the  very  power  he  was  using  against  him  to  his 
generosity.  And  he  did  expect  that  some  of 
his  fellows  would  say  a  word  of  this  kind  for 
him.  But  eaten  bread  is  soon  forgotten,  and 
no  one  present  had  a  single  memory  of  An 
drew's  great  sacrifices  of  time  and  money  for 
the  new  Kirk  which  he  was  now  accused  of 
injuring. 

Andrew  was  shocked  to  find  how  few  friends 
he  had.  He  had  not  thought  of  himself  as 
a  popular  man,  but  he  did  think  that  he  was  a 
man  respected  of  his  neighbours.  He  knew 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  1 1 9 

that  he  had  never  shown  himself  friendly  or 
even  social.  It  was  true  that  he  lived  a  life  of 
such  strict  methodical  piety  and  industry  as  the 
world  would  not  have  shared  with  him,  however 
urgently  he  had  asked  it.  But  for  all  that,  the 
world  was  angry  at  him.  Why  did  he  live  a 
life  different  from  his  neighbours  ?  Why  did  he 
think  a  little  daffing  and  dancing  and  scandal  a 
waste  of  time?  And  why  did  he  live  as  if  every 
moment  of  time  was  so  much  of  the  honest  price 
of  a  grand  eternity  ?  Why,  in  fact,  was  he 
better  than  the  rest  of  the  people  ? 

Could  he  not  understand  that  those  who  will 
not  do  as  others  do  are  a  living  reproach  to  all 
who  use  life  less  worthily  ?  No.  Andrew  could 
not  see  why  he  should  waste  his  time  because 
others  wasted  theirs  —  why  he  should  be  envi 
ous  and  scandalous  and  deceitful  because  others 
were  so.  On  the  contrary,  he  thought  it  a  kind 
of  duty  to  show  forth  an  example  of  strict  piety 
and  of  a  spotless  life.  And  he  had  made  a  slip ! 
And  his  neighbours  were  chortling  with  delight 
because  he  had  made  a  slip !  It  was  a  triumph 
beyond  their  expectations,  to  show  a  man  so 
austere,  that  a  character  like  his  —  with  a  stain 
on  it  —  had  lost  whatever  value  it  had. 


120  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

He  accepted  his  degradation  silently,  but 
his  eyes  were  wells  of  sorrowful  reproach.  Go 
ing  to  kirk,  that  had  been  such  a  joy  to  him, 
became  an  intolerable  humiliation ;  and  he  was 
almost  weary  to  bear  it,  when  one  Sabbath 
morning  the  minister  preached  a  sermon  upon 
spiritual  pride,  so  pointedly  aimed  at  Andrew 
that  no  one  could  doubt  its  intention.  It  was 
the  act  of  a  silly  young  man,  who  was  not  yet 
able  to  follow  the  nobler  way  of  his  Great  Head : 
"  A  broken  reed  I  will  not  break,  nor  quench 
the  smoking  flax."  And,  perchance,  if  the 
words  had  been  said  in  private  to  Andrew,  he 
would  have  shown  the  youth  his  error,  and  then 
forgiven  him.  But  the  pulpit  was  used  to  give 
weight  to  puny  personal  disapproval,  and  An 
drew  had  to  bear  his  reproof  under  exceedingly 
aggravating  circumstances. 

With  a  sorrowful  bitterness  no  words  can 
describe,  Andrew  resigned  his  office  hi  the  Kirk. 
It  was  an  impolitic  action,  and  subjected  him 
to  further  unkind  and  unjust  criticism.  One 
elder,  indeed,  told  him  plainly  to  his  face  that 
"  it  was  weel  kent  he  had  left  the  Kirk  because 
he  wasna  counted  worthy  o'  being  set  up  first." 
Others,  who  had  no  familiarity  to  warrant  their 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  121 

interference,  thought  it  to  be  their  duty  to  ad 
vise  or  to  reason  with  him.  And  not  a  few 
were  thoughtless  or  cruel  enough  to  use  his 
disobedient  child  as  an  evidence  that  he  couldna 
be  altogether  right,  and  that  even  in  his  own 
household  there  was  a  necessity  to  make  in 
quiry  into  the  way  he  had  guided  it. 

The  minister  had  said  —  with  many  regrets 
—  that  "Mister  Carrick  was  self-righteous  and 
impracticable ; "  and  if  the  minister  could  say 
that  much,  what  might  not  other  folks  say  ? 
There  was,  indeed,  much  evil  talking,  and  much 
good  talking  that  was  evil  in  its  intention ;  and 
Andrew  felt  that  he  could  not  bear  to  dwell 
amid  this  strife  of  tongues.  If  God  would  only 
hide  him  in  his  pavilion  from  it !  And  Ann  heard 
him  whispering  pitifully  as  he  walked  about  his 
silent  house-place,  — 

"  Oh,  that  I  had  wings  like  a  dove !  for  then 
would  I  fly  away  and  be  at  rest. 

"Lo,  then  I  would  wander  far  off,  and  remain 
in  the  wilderness. 

"  I  would  hasten  my  escape  from  the  windy 
storm  and  tempest. 

"  For  it  was  not  an  enemy  that  reproached 
me,  then  I  could  have  borne  it ;  neither  was  it 


122  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

he  that  hated  me  that  did  magnify  himself 
against  me  ;  then  I  would  have  hid  myself  from 
him. 

"  But  it  was  thou,  a  man  mine  equal,  my 
guide  and  mine  acquaintance. 

"  We  took  sweet  counsel  together,  and  walked 
unto  the  house  of  God  in  company." 

But,  alas,  he  could  not  add  to  David's  com 
plaint,  David's  wonderful  consolation  :  — 

"  As  for  me,  I  will  call  upon  God ;  and  the 
Lord  shall  save  me. 

"  In  God  will  I  put  my  trust,  I  will  not  fear 
what  flesh  can  do  unto  me  ! 

"When  I  cry  unto  thee,  then  shall  mine 
enemies  turn  back ;  this  I  know,  for  God  is  for 
me. 

"  Yea,  in  the  shadow  of  thy  wings  will  I  make 
my  refuge,  until  these  calamities  be  overpast." 

But  Andrew  could  not  rest  and  wait  till  God 
should  undertake  his  cause.  He  was  impatient 
of  the  wrongs  done  him,  and  determined  to 
express  in  some  way  the  sense  of  deep  injus 
tice  that  had  been  done  him.  So,  after  many 
heart-breaking  and  sleepless  nights  of  delibera 
tion,  he  withdrew  from  the  new  Kirk,  and  re 
signed  his  office  as  elder  in  it. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE,  12$ 

He  did  not  in  his  heart  believe  that  this  res 
ignation  would  be  accepted.  He  did  not  think 
the  new-born  little  Kirk  could  afford  to  lose  his 
help  and  influence ;  but  he  expected  a  move 
ment  so  final  would  certainly  bring  him  many 
visits  of  remonstrance  from  the  members  of 
the  Session.  In  such  personal  and  friendly 
visits,  sitting  at  his  own  fireside,  he  was  sure  he 
could  explain  his  position  with  a  freedom  not 
permissible  in  a  formal  meeting.  And  in  such 
case  he  never  doubted  but  he  could  convince 
a  majority  of  the  elders  and  influential  men 
that  he  was  innocent  of  anything  worthy  of 
blame.  The  question  fairly  put  to  them,  he 
was  certain  every  father  would  say,  "that  in 
the  same  circumstances  he  would  have  taken 
the  same  method  to  silence  the  slanderer  of  his 
daughter's  honour." 

But  his  letter  of  resignation  was  accepted 
with  a  formal  compliment  and  regret,  and 
there  was  no  opposition  to  its  taking  imme 
diate  effect.  Moreover,  a  son-in-law  of  David 
Grahame's  was  chosen  elder  in  his  place.  He 
was  a  very  suitable  man,  and  there  was,  per 
haps,  no  animosity  in  the  selection  ;  but  An 
drew  had  established  a  raw  on  this  subject,  and 


124  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

he  firmly  believed  James  Semple  had  been 
appointed  solely  because  he  was  Grahame's 
son-in-law,  and  therefore  the  successor  most 
likely  to  wound  and  humiliate  him. 

Alas !  he  had  no  spiritual  strength  to  fight 
these  ever-increasing  sorrows.  He  said  to  him 
self  in  a  passion  of  wronged  feeling,  that  it 
was  "  in  vain  he  had  washed  his  hands  in  inno- 
cency;"  and  this  attitude  once  assumed,  he 
argued  every  word  and  action  from  its  erring 
basis. 

In  these  evil  changes  Ann  Carrick  was 
greatly  to  be  pitied ;  for  it  was  really  on  her 
head  the  weight  —  the  long  daily  weight — of 
them  fell.  And  her  kirk  going  was  quite  as 
great  a  trial  to  her  as  Andrew's  had  been  to 
him.  Indeed,  it  was  even  more  humiliating 
and  painful ;  for  men  can  never  —  try  as  hard 
as  they  will  —  be  as  spiteful,  and  as  consis 
tently  and  unwaveringly  malicious  and  cruel, 
as  women.  The  men  of  the  congregation  did 
not  indeed  positively  annoy  Ann  ;  the  elder 
ones  simply  ignored  her  presence,  and  the 
younger  ones,  even  while  keeping  apart  from 
her,  could  not  help  a  glance  of  pitying  admira 
tion  for  a  girl  so  fair  to  see,  and  so  bitterly 
humbled  for  "  ither  folks'  ill-doing." 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  12$ 

But  the  women  stabbed  her  continually, 
whether  they  spoke  or  were  silent,  whether 
they  tittered  or  frowned ;  in  every  mood  they 
compelled  her  to  feel  that  they  were  thanking 
God  they  were  not  as  Jeannie,  nor  even  as 
Ann  Carrick.  Sabbath  after  Sabbath,  Ann 
Carrick  went  through  such  a  crucifixion  as  only 
women  know  how  to  inflict.  She  said  to  her 
father,  "it  was  a'  right;"  but  Andrew  sus 
pected  the  truth,  and  Ann  doubted  her  ability 
to  endure  it  for  very  long.  Indeed,  had  it  not 
been  for  her  father's  sake,  she  would  have 
asked  permission  to  stay  at  home  after  the  first 
month  of  such  an  experience ;  but  she  was  ter 
rified  lest  Andrew  might  espouse  her  quarrel, 
and  do  himself  further  injustice  in  the  righting 
of  her  wrongs. 

So  the  weary,  sorrowful  weeks  went  by, 
marked  as  they  went  by  a  seventh  day  of 
peculiar  wretchedness.  Ann  hoped,  however, 
that  if  things  could  be  kept  at  rest  until  the 
herring  fishing,  that  event  would  put  much,  if 
not  all,  right.  For  Andrew  Carrick  had  that 
wonderful  prescience  or  instinct  which  always 
led  him  straight  for  the  shoal  of  fish ;  and  his 
knowledge  of  the  winds  prevailing,  and  also 


126  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

his  great  physical  strength,  made  him  a  very 
welcome  addition  to  any  fleet  he  joined 

Out  on  the  moonlit  ocean,  while  men  were 
watching  and  waiting  the  midnight  away,  surely 
her  father  would  find  hearers  and  sympathisers ; 
some  one  friend  who  would  sit  with  him  and 
listen  to  him  and  help  him  to  talk  his  sorrow 
away.  Andrew  had  the  same  hope.  In  a  fish 
ing  boat  he  had  always  a  kind  of  natural  su 
premacy,  and  he  would  be  among  his  own  kind 
entirely.  When  they  were  alone  with  each 
other,  they  would  surely  listen  to  him  ;  and  if  he 
could  only  convince  them  of  his  justice  and 
integrity,  he  felt  that  he  could  bear  better  the 
dislike  and  disapproval  of  the  rest.  So  he 
waited  anxiously  for  the  herring  season,  and 
when  it  came  he  waited  anxiously  for  the  men 
to  come  up  and  ask  him  to  join  their  fleet. 

But  no  man  came,  and  no  man  sent  him  a 
message,  and  he  wondered  and  sorrowed  at 
then*  silence.  He  had  forgotten  the  few  angry 
words  he  said  to  Peter  Lochrigg  on  the  night 
of  Jeannie's  flight;  but  Peter  had  not  forgot 
ten  them,  and  Peter  was  the  leader  of  the  little 
fishing  colony,  and  had  a  great  influence  over 
his  mates.  So  when  some  one  spoke  of  Car- 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  12? 

rick  and  his  usual  help,  Peter  answerev.  posi 
tively  : — 

"  I'm  not  for  having  anything  to  do  wi'  An 
drew  Carrick  while  the  fishing  lasts.  He'll 
be  the  heighth  and  depth  o'  bad  luck  to  us.  It 
is  shame  enou',"  he  went  on,  "when  a  ruling 
elder  makes  himsel'  responsible  to  the  ceevil 
coorts,  and  incurs  reproof  and  fine ;  but  when, 
not  content  wi'  a'  that,  he  rebels  against  Kirk 
authority,  and  is  visibly  neglectfu'  of  a*  ordi 
nances,  it  is  a  crime  of  a  vera  heinous  nature." 

"  For  a'  that,  and  a'  that,"  answered  Sandy 
Simms,  "Andrew  Carrick  is  a  prime  fisher,  and 
the  kirk  and  the  boats  are  twa  different  places." 

Peter  Lochrigg  would  not  admit  this  view  of 
the  matter.  "  For  my  pairt,"  he  said,  "  I  am 
of  opinion  that  to  countenance  such  impiety  is 
to  be  a  pairtner  in  the  sin  o'  it.  And  Andrew 
Carrick  sail  not  help  a  herring  into  my  boat. 
I'd  be  feared  man  and  fish  wad  go  to  the 
bottom  thegither." 

And  men  who  would  have  been  hard  to 
reason  out  of  their  opinions  gave  them  away 
at  once  when  their  superstition  was  aroused. 
So  Andrew  saw  the  fishing  boats  sail  out  of 
harbour  for  the  first  "  take,"  and  no  one  had 


128  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

come  up  to  the  Lone  House  to  say,  "  Will  you 
go  wi'  us  to  the  fishing,  Carrick?"  He  turned 
in  and  sat  down  with  an  air  of  utter  depression. 

"  The  hand  o'  God  is  on  me,  Ann,"  he  said 
mournfully  ;  "  and  the  men  are  af eared  to  hae 
me  in  their  boats." 

Every  time  the  boats  went  out  or  came  in 
he  could  watch  them  from  his  open  door ;  and 
he  never  failed  to  give  himself  this  fresh  sor 
row.  Sometimes  he  was  saddened  to  tears  by 
the  sight,  but  far  more  frequently  he  was  roused 
to  anger;  and  doubtless  if  evil  wishes  could 
have  wrecked  the  boats  and  broken  the  nets, 
or  driven  the  fish  far  off,  these  things  would 
have  happened  to  the  small  fleet.  But  it  had 
extraordinary  good  fortune ;  and  though  Peter 
Lochrigg  did  not  plainly  say  "  it  was  the  reward 
of  their  doing  their  duty  fearless  of  any  man's 
good  or  ill  will,"  he  insinuated  this  idea  in 
a  hundred  different  ways,  because  it  really  was 
his  own  conviction. 

Thus  the  fishing  season,  which  had  always 
been  such  a  happy,  busy  time  to  Andrew,  went 
away  to  a  constant  fret;  and  Ann  was  reluc 
tantly  obliged  to  admit  that  it  had  added  to  her 
father's  moody,  irritable  temper.  Her  anxiety 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  12Q 

on  this  subject  was  constantly  increasing;  for 
Andrew  was  gradually  permitting  his  "wrongs" 
to  usurp  his  whole  existence.  Indeed,  early  in 
November  he  began  to  abandon  his  trade.  For 
three  generations  the  Carricks  had  employed 
their  winter  days  and  spare  hours  in  shoemak- 
ing ;  and  the  men  in  the  neighborhood  thought 
no  shoe  but  a  "  Carrick  boot "  worth  the  buying. 

Andrew  had  continued  the  trade,  though 
all  necessity  for  its  exercise  had  long  been 
over.  But  he  loved  the  occupation.  It  em 
ployed  him,  and  yet  left  his  thoughts  free.  It 
was  a  quiet,  sedentary  trade.  It  allowed  him 
to  be  in  every  respect  his  own  master.  Added 
to  these  reasons,  he  was  by  no  means  indiffer 
ent  to  the  money  he  made  at  his  bench.  And 
while  Jeannie  sat  sewing  and  singing  beside 
him  he  never  found  the  work  tiresome  or 
monotonous.  He  had  listened  to  her  chatter, 
or  had  told  her  to  be  quiet,  precisely  as  it 
suited  him ;  and  her  goings  in  and  out,  and  the 
bits  of  songs  she  hummed,  had  been  all  the 
company  he  wanted. 

But  in  November  he  took  a  sudden  hatred  to 
his  work.  He  could  bear  its  loneliness  and 
monotony  no  longer.  The  thoughts  of  his 


I3O  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

heart  troubled  him  to  extreme  restlessness,  as 
he  sat  with  his  lapstone  ;  and  in  his  impatience 
he  was  constantly  breaking  even  his  strong 
waxed  thread. 

"  Hae  that  wearisome  bench  put  oot  o'  my 
sight ! "  he  said  to  Ann  one  afternoon,  as  he 
flung  down  a  boot  he  had  just  finished  mend 
ing.  "  Put  it  oot  o'  my  sight ;  for  I'll  never  sit 
another  minute  at  it  !  What  for  should  I  ? " 

"  Because  all  folks  prize  a  Carrick  boot, 
father.  What  for  then  will  you  stop  making 
them?" 

"  I'll  make  no  more  boots  for  folk  that  willna 
gie  me  a  kind  word.  As  for  siller,  God  knows 
it  is  little  siller  and  less  thanks  I  get.  Set  by 
the  bench,  I'll  never  tak'  another  stitch." 


CHAPTER  VII. 

Have  I  not  seen  what  human  things  could  do  ? 
From  the  loud  roar  of  foaming  calumny 
To  the  small  whisper  of  the  paltry  few, 
And  subtler  venom  of  the  reptile  crew, 
The  Janus  glance  of  whose  significant  eye, 
Learning  to  lie  with  silence,  would  seem  true, 
And  without  utterance,  save  the  shrug  or  sigh. 

BYRON. 

THE  winter  came  early,  and  was  tempestu 
ous.  It  was  seldom  that  the  hardiest 
fisher  dared  to  cast  his  lines;  and  two  of  the 
men  were  compelled  one  hard  night  to  cut 
them,  and  be  thankful,  if  so  losing  them,  they 
might  save  their  own  lives.  The  scarcity  of 
fish  meant  the  scarcity  of  money,  and  Andrew 
expected  the  men  in  straits  to  come  to  him  for 
a  little.  They  had  done  so  for  generations,  and 
the  debt  had  ever  been  faithfully  settled  at  the 
next  herring  season.  So  Andrew  went  into 
Wigton,  and  supplied  himself  with  the  sum 
he  thought  would  be  necessary ;  and  then  he 
watched  eagerly  for  the  borrowers. 

Ann  advised  him  to  send  the  money  to  the 
'3* 


132  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

needy  families,  or,  if  not  so,  to  take  it  with  his 
own  hand.  "A  kind  word  would  make  the 
siller  a'  the  welcomer,  father,"  she  said.  But 
this  was  a  departure  from  the  usual  method, 
and  Andrew  very  naturally  thought  it  would 
be  misjudged,  perhaps  resented.  Peter  Loch- 
rigg  was  the  greatest  loser,  and  Andrew  knew 
Peter's  proud  nature. 

"  Peter  wad  tell  me  that  I  was  trying  to  buy 
his  good  will,  Ann,"  he  said  hopelessly.  "Vera 
likely  he  wad  add  that  he  required  naething 
from  me ;  and  the  others,  in  the  main,  will  do 
and  say  as  Peter  does  and  says." 

"  Go  to  Thomas  Gilhaize." 

"Thomas  Gilhaize  wad  speir  at  me,  'When 
did  I  seek  aught  this  year  from  you,  Maister 
Carrick?'" 

"Jamie  Buchan,  then?" 

"Jamie  wad  hold  up  his  head  and  tell  me 
'  he  was  used  to  straits,  and  could  fight  through 
them,  with  God's  help.'  Na !  na,  Ann  !  All  o' 
them  wad  hae  the  proud  word  if  I  went  among 
them  and  offered  help  ;  but  oh,  if  they  wad 
only  seek  it  of  me,  I  wad  be  mair  than 
thankfu'." 

However,  no  one  did  seek  Andrew's  help  ; 


THE   LONE  HOUSE.  133 

and  the  little  piles  of  silver  brought  especially 
from  Wigton  bank  —  one  for  each  cottage, 
and  two  piles  over,  in  case  of  special  hard~ 
ship ;  for  Andrew  was  thinking  of  Peter  Loch- 
rigg's  and  James  Laidlaw's  lost  lines  —  lay  in 
his  desk  untouched,  when  mid-December  had 
locked  up  land  and  sea,  and  made  the  little  fish 
ing  village  poor  and  dreary. 

Why  did  they  not  come  up,  as  some  of  them 
had  done  nearly  every  year  of  his  life,  and 
say,  "  Maister  Carrick,  we'll  hae  to  tak'  a  few 
pieces  o'  siller  from  your  hand  ;  and  the  herring, 
please  God,  will  pay  our  debt  in  the  summer 
time"? 

He  had  always  met  this  request  cheerfully. 
It  was,  indeed,  a  tradition  of  the  Carricks  that 
this  service  of  love  and  dependence  had  never 
once  failed.  Hitherto  the  fishers  in  need  had 
come  to  Carrick  as  simply  and  as  trustfully  as 
a  child  goes  to  its  father.  And  Andrew  had 
always  counted  this  ability  to  aid  his  tenants 
as  one  of  the  greatest  privileges  of  his  position. 
But  he  felt  now  that  his  very  readiness  would 
be  counted  against  him. 

In  this  conviction  he  was  not  mistaken  ;  for 
when  Laidlaw  spoke  of  asking  Carrick's  help 


134  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

to  get  new  lines,  Peter  Lochrigg  answered  pas 
sionately,  — 

"We  will  nane  o'  us  go  near  the  unlucky 
body.  I'll  ne'er  forget  the  self-satisfied  face 
on  him  when  he  handed  poor  Joe  Tyree  a  few 
shillings  last  springtime." 

"Joe  didna  think  any  wrong  o'  him  then." 

"Keep  your  mouth  shut,  James  Laidlaw. 
I  hae  a  plan  o'  my  ain,  and  it  willna  include 
Andrew  Carrick,  I  can  tell  you !  I  wad  sell  my 
boat  before  I'd  tak  a  bawbee  from  him.  Nae- 
thing's  lucky  that  has  his  name,  —  house,  nor 
land,  nor  boat,  nor  siller." 

"If  we  can  do  without  him"  — 

"If  he  can  do  without  the  ordinances,  we 
can  do  without  him,  though  we  be  called  '  Car- 
rick  Fishers.'  Humff !  Humff!" 

So  the  fishers  did  without  Andrew;  and 
Andrew  brooded  on  this  undeserved  rejection 
of  long  loving-kindness  until  the  brooding  pro 
duced  a  kind  of  insanity.  He  could  think  of 
nothing  else,  and  he  could  talk  of  nothing 
else.  Day  by  day  he  was  creating  the  sinful 
atmosphere  which  would  make  greater  sin  pos 
sible  to  him.  Ann  watched  his  moods  with 
growing  fright.  He  walked  to  the  house-place, 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  135 

or  the  cliff,  hour  after  hour,  muttering  to  him 
self.  He  ate  little  and  he  slept  less.  He  grew 
gaunt  and  savagely  gloomy.  He  had  fits  of 
rage  which  made  her  fly  from  his  presence  in 
terror.  She  spent  half  her  time  by  night,  as 
well  as  by  day,  in  watching  him.  Frequently  in 
the  midnight  darkness  she  would  creep  to  his 
door,  and  stand  there  shivering  with  cold  and 
fright,  listening  to  his  restlessness,  and  his 
muttered  accusations  and  complainings. 

One  terrible  thought  haunted  her,  —  if  he 
should  take  his  own  life  !  For  suicide  in  those 
days,  and  especially  in  such  religious  and  iso 
lated  localities,  was  held  as  a  mortal  shame 
and  cowardice.  All  good  men  averted  their 
eyes  from  it.  It  was  spiritually  the  sin  of 
Judas,  —  the  unpardonable  sin  of  one  who  al 
ready  felt  the  sentence  of  his  own  exclusion 
from  the  Divine  Mercy. 

Ann  knew  that  if  her  poor  father  should  be 
so  far  left  to  himself  as  to  take  his  life,  that 
she  must  die  of  shame  and  sorrow.  It  would 
cut  her  quite  off  from  the  Visible  Church,  and 
from  the  friendship  and  notice  of  her  fellow- 
creatures.  How  slant  would  be  the  looks  of 
recognition,  how  cold  the  words  of  courtesy 


136  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

that  would  be  given  to  a  suicide's  daughter! 
The  sins  of  her  father  and  sister  both  would 
fall  upon  her;  and  when  these  thoughts  pressed, 
as  they  often  did,  she  would  run  in  a  sweat  of 
agony  to  assure  herself  that  such  a  calamity 
was  as  yet  only  in  her  own  apprehension. 

In  her  desperate  strait  she  began  to  think 
of  stealing  away  in  the  night  to  Peter  Lochrigg. 
She  thought  that  if  she  told  Peter  the  whole 
truth,  he  would  surely  have  pity  on  his  old 
friend,  and  come,  not  only  to  get  help  for  him 
self,  but  to  give  help  and  comfort  to  a  man  so 
nearly  distracted.  She  would  tell  Peter  that 
it  was  not  wounded  pride,  but  wounded  love, 
that  was  killing  them  both  ;  and  surely  Sarah 
Lochrigg  would  take  pity  on  her  sore  womanly 
trouble. 

But  such  natures  as  Ann  Carrick's  have  to  be 
certain  they  are  right  before  they  dare  to  take 
an  unusual  step ;  and  Ann's  intentions  were 
delayed,  —  first,  by  conscientious  scruples,  and 
then  by  a  long  stretch  of  unfaceably  stormy 
weather.  And  so,  while  she  was  waiting  and 
watching  and  hesitating,  the  opportunity  passed 
away.  Alas,  alas !  how  difficult  it  is  to  know 
those  fortunate  hours  in  which  it  is  often  possi- 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  137 

ble  to  arrest  misfortune,  or  to  turn  the  threat 
ened  evil  into  a  blessing !  If  we  could  only 
read  the  horoscope  of  our  days,  we  should 
watch  for  these  golden  moments  as  they  who 
watch  for  the  morning. 

One  morning,  while  Ann  was  still  in  this 
state  of  almost  despairing  hesitation,  the  post 
man,  Norman  Dalzell,  brought  a  letter  from 
Edinburgh  to  Andrew.  It  was  a  bitterly  cold, 
stormy  day,  and  Carrick  asked  the  man  to  come 
in  and  warm  himself  before  going  any  farther. 
The  invitation  was  accepted,  and  the  two  men 
sat  and  smoked  by  the  fireside,  and  talked  of 
the  weather,  and  of  the  many  fatalities  which 
it  had  brought  about.  Then,  in  the  common 
place  way  of  a  man  who  is  stating  a  fact  known 
to  every  one,  Dalzell  said, — 

"  Factor  Blair  is  a  good  man,  Maister  Car- 
rick;  but  there  is  nane  that  is  likely  to  ken 
that  better  than  your  ain  sel'.  Folks  are  a' 
praising  him  for  the  kind  deed  done  to  the 
poor  tenants  o'  yours." 

Andrew  looked  up  as  if  he  had  been  struck 
in  the  face.  "What  is  your  meaning,  Dalzell  ? " 
he  asked.  And  there  was  such  a  mighty  pas 
sion  in  his  voice  that  Dalzell  rose  to  his  feet, 


138  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

and  began  to  button  his  coat.  "  What  is  your 
meaning,  man  ?  Speak  oot,  and  speak  plain  ! " 

"  There  is  naething  to  hinder  plain  speech, 
Maister  Carrick,  naething  at  a'.  I  am  sure  I 
thought  you  knew,  if  anybody  was  like  to  know, 
that  Factor  Blair  had  gi'en  thae  fishers  wha' 
lost  their  lines,  twenty  pounds.  They  say  it 
cam'  from  the  Earl  himsel'.  Think  o'  that, 
noo !  Peter  Lochrigg  asked  the  factor  for  the 
loan  o*  a  few  pounds  to  help  past  the  hard  win 
ter,  and  the  factor  gied  him  twenty  pounds. 
He  gied  it  with  a  very  kind-like  letter  from  the 
Earl's  ain  hand ;  and  if  you  had  read  the  Wig- 
ton  Gazette  o'  last  week  you  would  hae  kent  a' 
about  it.  I'm  sure  folk  in  Port  Braddon  hae 
gone  on  anent  the  matter  as  if  the  Earl  had 
gien  a  vera  fortune  awa'." 

"  You  can  go  your  ways  now,  Dalzell.  I  hae 
got  from  you  what  I  aye  get  if  I  try  to  do  a 
bit  kindness." 

"  You  asked  me  inside  yoursel',  Andrew 
Carrick ;  or  I  hadna  thought  o'  crossing  your 
doorstone.  I  might  have  kent  that  I  wad  get 
the  ill  word  before  I  left  your  fireside.  You 
gie  it  to  everybody,  friend  or  foe.  Whatna 
for  are  you  angry  the  noo  ?  Is  naebody  to  do 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  139 

a  good  turn  but  Andrew  Carrick  ?  Tut !  Tut, 
man !  I  wadna  be  sae  eat  up  wi'  envy  and 
jealousy  if  I  was  you." 

Andrew  did  not  answer  his  accuser;  he  had 
dropped  his  head,  and  he  did  not  even  lift  it  to 
look  at  his  departing  visitor.  Ann  with  a  few 
gentle  words  hurried  him  away,  and  then  she 
drew  a  stool  to  her  father's  side,  and  sat  down 
beside  him.  He  would  not  speak  of  the  sub 
ject,  but  began  to  talk  of  the  cattle  and  the 
cheese.  And  he  laughed  in  a  way  that  terrified 
Ann,  —  loud,  scornful  peals,  that  were  a  pitifully 
unnatural  expression  of  a  wounded  soul,  defy 
ing  the  contemptible  enemies  that  tortured  it. 

Now,  Andrew  Carrick  never  laughed  as  an 
outcome  of  happiness  —  a  general  brightening 
of  his  dark  face  answering  to  the  smile  of  gayer 
men ;  and  this  hysterical  mockery  finally  made 
Ann  lose  all  control  of  herself.  She  answered 
it  with  heart-broken  sobs  ;  and  then  the  father 
forgot  his  own  pain  in  his  child's  fear.  Then 
also  Ann  ventured  to  speak  to  him  of  her 
agonising  terror, —  that  his  unmerited  suffering 
might  cause  him  to  lose  the  balance  of  his 
judgment ;  and  she  entreated  him  to  open  his 
heart  to  his  true  friend. 


140  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

"  Go  to  Edinburgh,  and  tell  Cousin  Cosmo 
everything  you  have  been  made  to  suffer, 
father,"  she  urged.  "  He  will  give  you  both 
good  counsel  and  true  sympathy." 

"I  will  go,"  answered  Andrew;  "I  will  go  as 
soon  as  the  New  Year  is  over.  I  promise  you, 
Ann." 

"  Dinna  wait  for  the  New  Year,  father.  Go 
the  morn.  You  are  ill  with  sorrow,  and  you 
want  a  man  that  likes  you,  to  talk  your  trouble 
away,  and  help  you  to  find  Him  who  isna  far 
from  any  of  us,  —  Him  who  knows  every  wrong 
you  have  been  made  to  thole  —  baith  from 
friends  and  foes." 

But  Andrew  had  set  his  heart  on  waiting 
until  New  Year's  Day  was  over ;  and  Ann  — 
who  knew  his  motive  for  this  delay  —  was  full 
of  fear  for  the  result.  For  on  New  Year's  Day 
the  men  from  the  cottages  always  made  a  point 
of  calling  upon  Andrew.  Then  they  paid  him 
their  rents,  and  talked  over  the  business  of  the 
past  year,  and  the  prospects  of  the  coming 
season.  Then  they  ate  and  drank  together, 
and  thus  began  another  year  with  reciprocal 
good  wishes  for  each  other's  health  and  pros 
perity. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  14! 

If  all  other  ties  were  forgotten,  this  was  a 
tie  of  mutual  interest,  and  would  surely  remain 
intact.  And  it  promised  him  the  opportunity 
he  longed  for.  For  the  men  usually  came  sepa 
rately,  or  in  couples,  and  he  could  talk  over  his 
case  with  them,  as  man  to  man,  and  appeal  to 
the  long  affection  and  alliance  which  had  ex 
isted  between  them. 

"And  you  can  show  them  the  money  you 
had  ready  for  their  needs,  father,"  said  Ann. 
"They  will  have  to  believe  the  sight  of  the 
siller." 

Andrew  shook  his  head.  "  I  canna  do  it, 
Ann,"  he  answered.  "  They  wad  think,  and 
they  wad  say,  it  was  easy  getting  money  when 
I  kent  it  wad  not  be  required." 

"  You  can  show  them  your  bank-book ;  they 
can  see  for  themsels  that  it  has  been  lying  for 
a  month  or  mair." 

"  Lassie  !  A'  things  —  even  good  things  — 
go  against  me  these  days.  Blair  gave  the 
twenty  pound  the  vera  day  before  I  went  to 
Wigton." 

"  Well,  father,  you  have  the  plea  in  your 
heart  ready,  and  I  never  knew  your  tongue  to 
turn  against  you.  You  will  be  able,  at  the  hour, 


142  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

to  say  the  right  word  and  the  strong  word,  and 
they  will  be  queer  folk  you  canna  convince." 

"  I  hope  sae,  my  bairn !  I  hope  sae  !  God 
in  his  mercy  help  me  !  " 

New  Year's  Day  was  bright  and  clear,  and 
Andrew  dressed  himself  with  some  care.  Last 
New  Year  the  house  had  been  busy  with  callers 
and  well-wishers  the  whole  day  long.  Surely 
Andrew  could  not  have  lost  every  friend  he  had 
in  one  twelvemonth.  Ann  put  the  house  in 
holiday  trim,  took  out  the  damask  cloths  and 
napkins,  and  the  best  crystal  and  china,  and  set 
the  table  with  all  the  modest  luxuries  at  her 
command. 

She  also  put  on  her  kirk  dress  and  her  pretty 
blue  ribbon  snood,  and  thus  tried  hard  to  give 
some  feeling  of  hope  and  holiday  to  the  forlorn 
dwelling.  Then  how  slowly  and  yet  how  rap 
idly  the  hours  ticked  themselves  away!  An 
drew  walked  about  the  floor,  for  it  gave  him  an 
opportunity  to  watch  the  road  from  the  shingle. 
But  it  was  not  until  afternoon  that  any  one  trod 
it.  Then  Peter  Lochrigg  was  seen  coming,  and 
Andrew  sat  down  in  his  chair  to  wait  for  him. 

He  knocked  at  the  door,  and  Ann  opened  it. 
With  a  civil  message  and  the  usual  New  Year's 


THE   LONE  HOUSE.  143 

greetings  he  handed  her  a  package.  "  It  hauds 
the  rent  money,  Ann,"  he  said ;  "just  gie  it  to 
Maister  Carrick,  with  oor  respects.  I'm  speak 
ing  for  the  all  o'  us." 

"Come  in,  Peter,"  she  pleaded  ;  " do  f" 

"It's  no  possible,  Ann,"  he  said;  "for  my 
daughter  Meg  has  come  o'er  from  Wigton  wi' 
her  little  lass,  and  you  ken  it  is  the  first  grand 
child,  and  there's  a  bit  gathering  at  my  house 
to  welcome  it.  Sae  I  promised  my  gude  wife 
not  to  ware  a  minit  mair  than  needs  be." 

"  But,  Peter,  come  in  !  "  Her  eyes  were  full  of 
tears,  and  she  heard  her  father  muttering  an 
grily.  She  trembled  and  hesitated,  and,  before 
she  could  make  another  plea,  Peter  had  turned 
away.  Then  she  shut  the  door  and  laid  the 
money  down  on  the  table.  Andrew  had  heard 
every  word  ;  there  was  no  necessity  to  say  any 
thing.  She  looked  at  him  pitifully ;  he  was  sit 
ting  bent  forward  in  a  kind  of  despair. 

"Weel,  Ann?" 

"  I  hae  naething  to  say,  father.  I  feel  maist 
broken-hearted.  For  a'  men  are  cruel  to  you, 
and  you  have  done  naething  wrong  to  deserve 
it." 

Then  he  struck  the  arm  of  his  chair  with  his 


144  THE   LONE  HOUSE. 

open  hand,  and  said  with  an  intense  passion, 
"  Nae  man  has  ever  been  worse  wounded  in  the 
house  o'  his  friends  than  I  hae  been.  Grahame 
was  aye  and  ever  mine  enemy.  Ill  words  and 
ill  deeds  I  expectit  frae  him.  Naething  but  the 
grace  o'  God  in  his  heart  could  hae  prevented 
them.  But  the  men  o'  '  Carricks  '  for  genera 
tions  hae  eat  the  Carrick  bread,  and  drank  oot 
o'  oor  cup.  My  forbears  and  their  forbears 
struck  hands  together  after  the  battle  of  Drum- 
clog,  when  they  were  a'  fleeing  for  their  lives, 
and  when  Carrick's  purse  was  the  only  purse 
amang  them.  And  in  their  necessity  it  has 
never  since  been  closed  to  them.  My  God  is 
my  witness !  Never  has  any  man  been  sae  ill 
treated." 

He  believed  it  with  all  his  soul ;  and  Ann  be 
lieved  it  also.  She  was  indignant  with  Peter, 
and  the  weaker  men  who  took  Peter's  word 
against  their  own  long  experience  of  her 
father's  kindness.  But  with  Andrew  the  root 
of  bitterness  was  not  so  much  with  man  as 
with  God.  In  a  real  anguish  he  cried  out, 
"  God  might  have  undertaken  for  me,  and  he 
has  not.  God  sees  my  innocency,  and  he 
doesna  justify  me.  God  hears  my  enemies 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  14$ 

railing  against  me,  and  he  doesna  shut  their 
mouths.  God  kens  weel  how  they  hate  me, 
and  plot  against  me,  and  yet  he  doesna  pre 
vent  their  evil  devices  from  coming  to  pass." 

In  his  heart  he  accused  God  of  a  species  of 
ingratitude  to  him.  He  had  given  him  a  taste 
of  victory,  and  then  turned  it  into  shame.  He 
had  suffered  his  enemies  to  triumph  over  him. 
He  had  withheld  from  him  the  secret  consola 
tion  of  his  mercy.  In  his  best  moods  he  lik 
ened  himself  to  Job  or  Jonah,  and  waited  for 
the  Lord  to  explain  himself  to  him.  And  if  at 
this  time  he  had  been  told  that  the  Devil  was 
deceiving  him,  he  would  not  have  listened  ;  for 
he  was  deceiving  himself,  and  the  worst  of  all 
frauds  is  to  cheat  one's  own  soul. 

It  was  in  vain  that  Ann  now  urged  him  to  go 
to  Edinburgh.  He  said  Cosmo  Carrick  was  the 
one  only  friend  left  him,  and  he  wouldna  run 
the  risk  o'  losing  his  friendship.  "  God  himsel' 
doesna  like  complaining  folk,  Ann,"  he  said, 
"  and  I  be  to  complain.  What  else  at  all  is 
left  to  me  ?  Am  I  stronger  or  wiser  than  King 
David  ?  and  yet  thae  Psalms  o'  his  are  just  fu' 
o'  tears  and  mourning." 

"  Ay,  ay,  father  !  but  David's  mourning  has 


146  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

aye  a  song  at  the  end  o'  it.  Tak  your  Bible  and 
see  for  yoursel'.  There  is  no  harm  in  com 
plaining  o'  your  troubles,  if  you  will  also  say, 
as  David  aye  says,  in  one  way  or  another,  '  The 
Lord  hath  heard  my  supplication ;  the  Lord  will 
receive  my  prayer.'  O  father,  if  you  would 
just  sing  with  David,  as  well  as  complain  with 
him!" 

"Sing  if  you  can,  Ann  Carrick.  I'm  no 
hindering  you.  But  my  heart  knows  its  ain 
bitterness,  and  there's  nane  but  God  can  inter 
meddle  wi'  its  sorrow." 

After  this  event  the  winter  passed  most 
wretchedly  away.  Proud,  passionate,  ardent, 
suffering  of  any  kind  occasioned  Andrew  an 
amazement  bordering  on  rebellion.  He  felt 
under  it  the  indignation  of  a  king's  son  upon 
whose  purple  a  slave  has  laid  his  hands.  His 
soul  retaining  little  of  its  high  origin  but  pride, 
dealt  with  its  Maker  in  a  presumptuous  spirit. 
The  sentiment  of  his  own  sinfulness  did  not 
strike  him  ;  and  the  necessity  of  being  purified 
though  as  by  fire  and  sword  made  him  angry. 
He  constantly  believed  himself  to  have  "  washed 
his  hands  in  innocency,"  and  to  have  done  so 
all  in  vain. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

Even  as  regarded  the  judgment  of  men,  his 
own  case  seemed  to  him  to  be  peculiarly  unjust. 
His  daughter  had  been  no  deeper  in  the  actual 
transgression  of  domestic  duties  than  Gra- 
hame's  son  had  been  ;  and  he  was  now  more 
sure  than  ever  that  Grahame's  words  had  well 
deserved  and  justified  the  knock-down  he  gave 
him.  Yet  Grahame,  if  anything,  was  in  higher 
esteem  than  he  had  ever  before  been,  while  he 
was  treated  with  that  negative  reproof  which 
is  worse  than  many  stripes. 

Very  frequently  Grahame  passed  the  Lone 
House,  and  always  in  the  company  of  Factor 
Blair  or  the  Rev.  Mr.  Begg  of  the  Established 
Church,  or  else  with  some  rich  cattle-dealer  or 
farmer.  Intentionally  or  accidentally,  he  was 
generally  in  high  spirits;  and  his  loud,  domi 
neering  voice  and  scornful  guffaw  of  laughter 
was  the  acme  of  torture  to  Andrew's  super- 
sensitive  self-esteem.  He  was  sure  that  Gra 
hame  was  mocking  him,  defying  him,  trying  to 
irritate  him  into  some  flagrant  act  of  unwise 
resentment. 

For  Grahame  did  not.  show  to  the  public  any 
sign  of  the  bitter  disappointment  he  felt  in  his 
son's  foolish  marriage.  Yet  he  did  suffer,  and 


148  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

that  very  keenly.  Walter  was  his  only  son,  and 
he  had  looked  to  him  to  marry  some  wealthy 
girl  in  his  own  rank,  and  then  take  a  share  in 
the  big  business  he  had  built  up  for  him.  He 
had  two  daughters ;  but  both  had  married  men 
personally  objectionable  to  him,  besides  holding 
religious  and  political  opinions  radically  opposed 
to  his  own.  His  wife  was  dead  Walter,  there 
fore,  had  been  the  hope  and  the  pride  of  his 
life.  He  admired  the  lad's  beauty,  his  sunny 
temper,  and  his  skill  in  many  things.  He 
reminded  him  of  his  own  youth ;  and  he  was 
rather  proud  of  his  extravagances,  and  of  his 
abilities  concerning  many  things  of  which  he 
himself  was  ignorant. 

In  fact,  Grahame's  loss  was  just  as  great  as 
Andrew's,  as  far  as  domestic  hopes  were  con 
cerned  ;  and  Grahame  suffered  in  his  own  way 
quite  sufficiently  to  have  satisfied  Andrew's  de 
sire  for  vengeance  —  if  Andrew  had  only  known 
it  But  he  hardly  considered  this  side  of  the 
question  at  all.  He  could  not  believe  that  any 
one  had  ever  been  so  cruelly  wronged  as  he 
had  been,  or  that  any  one  had  the  capacity  to 
suffer  as  he  suffered. 

Alas  for  Andrew  Carrick !    A  victim  of  the 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  149 

world's  misapprehensions  and  of  his  own  errors, 
mortified,  devoured  as  by  a  barren  pain,  a  prey 
to  the  delirium  of  pride,  unsocial,  ashamed  even 
of  his  sufferings,  he  rapidly  became  an  egotist 
of  the  worst  type.  For  when  a  man  is  his  own 
god,  how  can  he  possess  the  God  of  heaven  ? 

He  was  in  this  way  thoroughly  self-absorbed, 
and  so  he  never  noticed  the  change  in  his 
daughter  Ann.  Her  household  tasks  and  her 
constant  watch  over  her  father  began  ere  this 
whiter  was  over  to  tell  fearfully  even  upon  her 
perfect  health  and  calm  temperament.  She  had 
too  much  to  do,  even  if  she  had  had  no  other 
care  but  the  house  and  dairy;  but  her  work 
was  delayed  and  hampered  perpetually  by  her 
father's  necessities.  Even  this  might  have 
been  borne,  if  she  had  been  able  to  sleep ;  but 
she  was  virtually  on  watch  all  night  and  all  day, 
and  finally  she  lost  her  appetite,  and  food  was 
like  ashes  in  her  mouth.  As  the  spring  came 
on  she  was  compelled  frequently  to  hide  herself 
for  half  an  hour  and  take  a  good  cry,  that  she 
might  even  temporarily  relieve  the  weight  of 
work  and  despair  that  was  eating  her  young 
life  away. 

One  lovely  day  in  April  Andrew  appeared  to 


ISO  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

be  more  reasonable  and  hopeful,  and  Ann  per 
suaded  him  to  go  to  Port  Braddon. 

"  You  are  forgetting  what  like  the  world  is, 
father,"  she  said;  "and  there's  things  for  the 
house  needed  —  and  if  you  canna  go  I  will  just 
hae  to  try  and  go  mysel'  —  and  I'm  not  feeling 
very  able —  I'm  feeling  very  badly,  father  —  and 
I  would  like  to  speak  with  the  doctor." 

Her  voice  trembled  ;  she  had  to  sit  down  :  it 
was  difficult  to  keep  back  the  tears  she  knew 
would  anger  her  father.  But  he  looked  at  her 
sharply  as  she  made  her  most  modest  complaint, 
and  he  was  shocked  at  the  wan,  shrunken  face 
of  the  once  blooming  Ann  Carrick. 

"  Why  didna  you  speak  ere  this,  Ann  ? "  he 
asked. 

"You  have  been  that  full  o'  sorrow,  father, 
that  I  couldna  bear  to  add  one  drop  to  it.  But 
if  I  dinna  get  help  soon,  I'm  feared  I'll  be  in 
my  bed,  and  then  we  shall  be  forced  to  have 
strangers  in  the  house  —  and  I'm  sure  that 
would  be  a  great  fret  to  you." 

"  Strangers  in  the  house  !  God  forbid  !  That 
would  be  the  last  drop  in  the  black  cup  given 
me  to  drink.  You  shouldna  hae  run  a  risk  like 
that,  Ann ;  for  my  sake,  no  to  speak  o'  your 


THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

ain.  But  I'll  hae  the  doctor  here  soon,  my 
lassie,  and  keep  up  if  you  can.  I  think  shame 
o'  mysel'  for  not  noticing  your  white  face  be 
fore.  I'm  feared  I  hae  been  very  selfish  and 
vera  unkind  to  you,  Ann,  my  bairn." 

"  It  isna  in  you  to  be  unkind  to  man,  woman, 
or  beast,  father.  I  didna  speak,  and  you  didna 
see.  Folk  be  to  complain  ere  they  can  expect 
help." 

"  O  Ann  ! "  he  answered,  "  if  God  would 
only  listen  to  my  complaining  as  readily  and 
willingly  as  I  listen  to  yours !  But  he  has  hid 
his  face  far  from  me." 

"  O  father,  if  "  — 

"Never  mind,  my  bairn.  I'll  awa'  to  Port 
Braddon  as  fast  as  my  pony  will  trot  me  there." 

Now,  Andrew  had  not  been  in  Port  Braddon 
for  many  months,  and  the  changes  going  on 
there  astonished  him.  Some  capitalists  had 
found  out  its  excellent  harbour,  and  its  conti 
guity  to  the  Irish  coast,  and  had  determined  to 
make  it  the  depot  of  a  line  of  small  steamers 
between  the  two  countries.  A  ship-building 
yard  and  a  new  pier  were  in  progress.  Andrew 
had  never  seen  so  many  men  and  horses  and 
carts  working  together  in  all  his  life.  There 


152  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

was  something  revolutionary  in  their  very  as 
pects  ;  he  could  feel  that  the  old  town  was 
passing  away  before  them. 

Indeed,  many  of  the  old  houses  were  putting 
on  new  fronts,  and  new  houses  were  being  built 
in  all  directions.  Almost  the  first  ones  Andrew 
saw  were  a  row  of  small  cottages,  called  "  Gra- 
hame  Terrace."  In  fact,  the  drowsy  little  sea 
port  had  been  awakened  ;  action,  bustle,  enter 
prise,  were  in  every  part  of  it.  The  wages  of 
stone-masons  and  builders  had  nearly  doubled  ; 
several  fresh  stores  had  been  opened,  and  there 
was  a  prospectus  for  a  newspaper  nailed  up  in 
the  bar  of  the  public,  where  Andrew  always 
fed  his  pony.  Every  one  he  met  seemed  full 
of  business  and  pressed  for  time. 

Quite  in  accord  with  all  this  stir  and  move 
ment  was  the  bright,  bustling,  important  Free 
Kirk  minister,  who  was  the  first  person  to  ac 
cost  Andrew  after  he  entered  the  town.  He 
said  he  rejoiced  to  see  him  again — and  that 
his  place  in  the  kirk  had  missed  him  too  long. 
He  hoped  he  had  quite  recovered,  and  was 
sure  his  old  friends  would  be  delighted  to  wel 
come  him  back  to  kirk  on  the  next  Sabbath 
morning. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  153 

He  quite  ignored  the  fact  that  Andrew  had 
always  refused  to  see  him  in  all  his  pastoral 
calls.  He  would  not  notice  the  dour,  disapprov 
ing  face  that  answered  all  his  pleasant  plati 
tudes.  He  was  not  even  dashed  by  Andrew's 
curt,  "Good-day  to  you,  sir" — the  only  words 
he  chose  to  say  in  reply  to  so  many  kind  hopes 
and  wishes.  Perhaps  it  was  a  generous  obliv 
ion  on  the  minister's  part,  but  Andrew's  per 
versity  only  considered  it  an  additional  offence. 

"He  is  just  the  maist  exasperating  o'  men," 
he  said  to  Ann,  when  he  told  her  of  the 
interview.  "  He  treated  me  as  if  I  was  a 
bairn  —  a  spoiled,  petted  bairn,  wha  had  to'  be 
humoured,  and  whose  anger  wasna  worth  the 
minding." 

"  I  am  so  sorry,  father." 

"  Ay  ;  so  am  I.  That  never-mind  way  o'  his 
isna  meenisterial.  I  wad  hae  respectit  him 
mair,  if  he  had  said  to  me,  'Carrick,  you  are 
wrong.  It  is  your  duty  to  come  to  kirk;  and 
you  grieve  God,  and  are  going  to  the  Devil,  by 
not  being  diligent  in  the  ordinances.'  If  he 
had  spoken  in  that  fashion,  I  wad  hae  answered 
him ;  and  good  might  hae  perhaps  come  o'  the 
words.  But  to  be  fleeched  and  flattered,  and 


154  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

the  excuse  o'  sickness  put  into  my  mouth,  was 
mair  than  I  could  thole  wi'  patience." 

"  He  meant  kindly,  father.  Some  folk 
haven't  the  sense  o'  St.  Paul ;  they  canna 
put  themselves  in  the  place  o'  others,  so  as 
to  win  them  to  the  right  way.  You  should  look 
over  his  ignorance,  father." 

"  Such  ignorant  men  shouldna  push  them- 
sel's  into  the  ministry.  Cosmo  Carrick  would 
hae  met  me  like  as  if  I  was  a  man.  He  wad 
hae  reasoned  with  me.  If  he  thought  it  needfu' 
he  wad  hae  reproved  me  with  reproofs  suitable 
to  my  age  and  experience  o'  sorrow.  But  I 
canna  bide  this  young  man.  I  canna  bide  that 
smile  o'  his,  and  his  loud  voice,  and  his  look  o' 
parfect  contentment  wi'  this  sinfu',  wearfu' 
warld." 

As  they  talked  thus  of  the  minister,  the 
doctor  arrived.  He  found  Ann  very  sick  and 
feeble,  and  he  positively  forbade  her  to  leave 
her  bed  for  some  days.  He  said  "  the  girl  was 
fairly  run  to  the  ground,  and  that  it  would  be  a 
very  fortunate  thing  if  they  were  able  together 
to  ward  off  a  long  attack  of  typhoid-fever." 
Andrew  now  had  the  choice  of  two  courses, 
both  unpleasant  to  him,  —  he  could  do  the 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  155 

housework,  and  attend  to  the  milking  himself ; 
or  he  could  hire  some  woman  to  take  Ann's 
place  in  these  matters.  He  chose  rather  to 
work  than  to  thole  a  stranger  in  his  home  ;  and 
the  distraction  from  himself,  small  as  it  was, 
did  him  good. 

Fortunately,  also,  the  doctor  was  a  man  of 
a  good-humoured,  politic  temper.  He  had  no 
objections  to  join  Andrew  in  a  prudent  con 
demnation  of  the  Free  Kirk  elders,  and  of 
David  Grahame.  And  he  was  quite  ready  to 
indorse  Andrew's  opinion  of  the  Free  Kirk 
minister.  "  He  has  very  free,  loud  ways  with 
him,  "  he  said  ;  "  and  I  think  his  visits  are  very 
prejudicial  to  my  patients.  He's  not  a  popular 
man  at  all."  And  Andrew  felt  this  circum 
stance  to  be  gratifying. 

"  He  doesna  deserve  to  be  popular,"  he  an 
swered.  "  Ministers  should  stand  on  their  dig 
nity,  and  not  try  fleech  and  flatter  folk.  They 
shouldna  mak'  excuses  for  folk  either.  I  didna 
thank  him  for  makin'  one  for  me.  I  wad  as 
soon  accuse  mysel'  as  excuse  mysel'.  They  are 
much  and  about  the  same  thing." 

"  What  excuse  did  he  make  for  you,  Carrick? 
What  have  you  been  doing  wrong,  I  wonder  ? " 


I  $6  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

"  I  havena  been  to  kirk  lately  —  I  hae  suffi 
cient  reasons  for  not  going.  And  he  pretended 
to  think  it  was  naething  but  sickness  that  kept 
me  awa'  !  I  am  not  a  sick  man,  and  he  kent  it 
weel  enou'." 

"  But  you  are  not  looking  as  you  used  to,  I 
can  say  that,  Carrick ;  and  as  soon  as  your 
daughter  is  better,  I  would  just  take  my  fowl 
ing-piece  and  go  awa'  to  the  hills  every  day  for 
a  few  hours.  It  will  be  a  good  thing  for  you." 

"  I  dare  say  it  would.  I'm  obliged  to  you  for 
thinking  o'  it." 

"There's  nothing  like  Nature,  Carrick,"  he 
said.  "  When  a  man  is  sick  to  death  of  men 
and  women  there's  naething  like  Nature.  She 
never  yet  betrayed  the  heart  that  loves  her. 
Tut,  man !  put  from  you  all  thoughts  of  David 
Grahame  and  thae  weary  Kirk  elders,  and  the 
minister  himsel',  and  go  your  ways  up  to  the 
tip-top  of  the  mountains.  You'll  breathe  an 
ampler  air  there,  free  of  the  fret  and  noise  of 
this  world.  And  you'll  have  none  but  God  to 
overlook  you,  and  may,  if  you  like  it,  walk 
abreast  with  the  angels." 

The  more  Andrew  thought  of  this  idea,  the 
more  he  was  pleased  with  it.  In  fact,  the  doc- 


THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

tor's  influence  over  him  was  very  good.  He 
took  down  his  seldom  used  gun,  and  cleaned 
it  well.  And  as  he  did  so  he  remembered  how 
the  persecuted  men  in  all  ages  had  fled  to  the 
mountains  and  unplanted  places  of  the  earth  ; 
and  there  was  a  kind  of  comfort  in  putting 
himself  among  such  company. 

Perhaps  it  was  this  new  hope  for  her  father 
that  helped  Ann  to  a  more  speedy  recovery. 
At  any  rate,  by  the  end  of  May  she  was  going 
about  the  house  and  dairy  as  usual ;  and  then 
Andrew  began  to  take  to  the  hills  and  moors 
as  steadily  as  if  it  was  his  daily  labor. 

But  solitude  was  not  what  this  man  wanted. 
And  there  is  no  voice  in  Nature  that  cries  to 
the  children  of  men,  "  Return  !  "  So  Andrew 
remained  spiritually  as  far  astray,  as  lonely  and 
forgotten  of  God  and  man,  as  ever. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

Neither  is  any  creature,  great  or  small, 
Beyond  His  pity ;  which  embraceth  all. 
Nor  lies  the  babe  nearer  the  nursing  place, 
Than  Allah's  smallest  child  to  Allah's  grace. 

Silently  Gabriel  left 
The  Presence,  and  prevented  the  man's  sin. 

Koran. 

IT  was  about  this  time  that  David  Grahame 
had  a  letter  from  his  son.  It  came  from 
Australia,  where  the  young  man  said  he  was 
intending  to  make  a  large  fortune ;  adding 
that  "he  hoped  to  return  to  Scotland  young 
enough  to  use  and  enjoy  it."  This  letter  was 
a  very  fine  piece  of  composition,  covering  many 
pages  of  "foreign  post,"  and  full  of  vivid  de 
scriptions  of  his  new  life  in  the  new  world. 

Grahame  was  really  very  proud  of  this  epis 
tle.  He  knew  that  he  could  not  have  written 
anything  like  it  himself,  and  he  thought  a  great 
deal  of  the  son  who  could  write  it.  He  read 
it  through  to  his  minister,  and  to  every  ac 
quaintance  who  would  tarry  to  hear  it.  He 
158 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  1 59 

took  it  to  the  market-dinner,  and  read  to  the 
farmers  assembled  there  what  "  my  son  Walter 
says  of  sheep-farming  in  Australia." 

So  Walter  Grahame's  letter  was  generally 
talked  about ;  and  Andrew  in  course  of  time 
heard  a  great  deal  here  and  there  of  the  mat 
ter.  He  longed  to  ask  questions  —  to  hear 
something  of  his  lost  child;  but  he  could  not 
humble  himself  to  make  inquiries,  and  no  one 
named  Jeannie,  though  they  told  him  about  a 
great  many  other  things  which  Walter  had 
written  about. 

It  seemed  to  Andrew  that  every  one  was 
purposely  and  cruelly  reticent  on  the  subject. 
Walter  must  have  mentioned  his  wife,  Andrew 
was  sure  of  that ;  and  it  was  part  of  Grahame's 
malice  to  restrain  all  information  about  her. 
Sometimes  he  feared  that  she  was  dead  and 
forgotten ;  indeed,  the  deliberate,  unbroken  si 
lence  filled  him  with  suspicions  and  anxious 
fears.  Ann  suggested  that  "  it  was  likely  mis 
taken  kindness  on  his  neighbour's  part."  She 
thought  that  "  Jeannie  had  been  mentioned,  but 
that  no  one  was  quite  sure  whether  Andrew 
would  like  to  talk  about  his  daughter  or  not." 

However  this  or  that,  it  was  finally  evident 


I6O  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

to  the  unhappy  man  that  if  Jeannie  had  been 
mentioned  by  Walter  Grahame,  his  father  had 
purposely  ignored  and  omitted  that  portion  of 
the  letter;  and  it  was  true,  also,  that  people 
were  talking  queerly  about  this  omission.  The 
latter  circumstance  angered  him  very  much ; 
but  he  could  reach  nothing  tangible  on  the 
matter,  until  one  day  he  met  daft  Watty  on 
the  moor,  and  entered  into  conversation  with 
the  "innocent." 

"You'll  hae  heard  Walter  Grahame's  letter 
read,  dootless,  Watty  ?  "  inquired  Andrew. 

Watty  made  a  movement  of  scornful  impa 
tience,  as  he  answered,  "  I  should  say  I  had 
heard  it!  I'm  thinking  I  hae  heard  it  a  hun 
dred  times,  or  maybe  mair  than  that  —  a  wheen 
havers  !  Naething  else  !  A'  the  king's  horses, 
and  a'  the  king's  men,  couldna  do  the  half  that 
Watty  Grahame  thinks  he  is  going  to  do. 
There's  mair  daft  folk  than  me  in  this  warld, 
Maister  Carrick." 

"  Indeed  there  is,  Watty  !  Think  o'er  what 
he  said,  and  tell  me  if  my  daughter  Jeannie 
was  named  at  a'.  You  were  knowing  Jeannie 
Carrick,  Watty  ? " 

"Ay,  she  was  a  bonnie  lass,  and  she  aye  had 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  l6l 

a  drink  o'  milk  for  a  poor  daft  lad,  if  he  wanted 
one." 

"  You  remember  that  she  rin  awa'  with  Wal 
ter  Grahame?" 

"  Poor  lass !  She  was  the  daft  body  that 
time." 

"  You  didna  like  young  Grahame,  did  you  ?  " 

"  He  was  weel  enou'.  Some  lads  worse  than 
him  —  a  few  lads  better.  I'm  better  mysel'." 

"  When  he  wrote  this  grand  letter  hame  from 
Australia,  did  he  name  Jeannie  in  it  ?  Think 
weel,  Watty." 

Watty  thought  a  moment  or  two,  and  then 
answered  with  a  pawky  leer,  "Grahame  didna 
name  her.  I  dinna  think  that  is  any  sign  that 
she  wasna  named." 

Andrew  laughed  heartily.  "To  be  sure, 
Watty ! "  he  said.  "  To  be  sure ;  that  is  the 
'because.'  You  hae  hit  the  nail  right  on  the 
head." 

"  I  maistly  do,  Maister  Carrick." 

"  Indeed  you  do  hae  a  kind  o'  divination  that 
far  wiser  folks  want,  Watty." 

"And  I'm  thinking,  Maister  Carrick,  that  a 
gude  deal  was  said  aboot  your  Jeannie.  And 
I'm  thinking  Walter  Grahame  was  asking  his 


1 62  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

father  for  siller.  The  auld  man  didna  say  a 
word  anent  that  part  o'  the  letter  either.  Mind  ! 
You'll  no  require  to  say  to  ither  folk  that  I 
told  you  this,  or  that.  I  hae  to  tak'  my  toll 
frae  every  man,  and  I  canna  afford  to  mak' 
enemies." 

"  I'll  say  nothing,  Watty.  Not  a  word  to  any 
one.  There's  my  hand  on  my  promise." 

"You  might  pit  a  saxpence  into  it  —  just  to 
mak'  the  promise  a  dead  surety,  Maister  Car- 
rick" 

Andrew  laid  the  sixpence  in  Watty's  out 
stretched  hand ;  and,  as  he  put  it  in  his  pouch, 
the  "  innocent  "  said,  "  I  wouldna  fret  mysel' 
the  way  you  do,  Carrick.  Folks  a'  say  that  it 
is  an  unco  pity  for  a  braw  man  like  you  to 
worry  yoursel'  about  what  had  to  be.' 

"  Watty,  why  do  you  think  that  Jeannie  and 
siller  were  baith  named  in  Walter  Grahame's 
letter  to  his  father?" 

"  Ay,  ay !  you'll  be  to  hae  your  saxpence 
worth  o'  news,  nae  doot.  Weel,  then,  I  stood 
near  by  Grahame  gey  often,  when  he  was 
blethering  and  boasting  aboot  that  letter ;  and 
I  saw  plain  that  it  had  been  crossed  oot,  here 
and  there,  wi'  a  pencil :  and  I'm  maist  sure  — 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  163 

I  dinna  say  I'm  quite  sure  —  but  I'm  maist 
sure,  the  crossing  was  over  Jeannie's  name." 

"  I  wouldna  wonder,  Watty.  And  what  made 
you  think  Walter  Grahame  was  asking  his 
father  for  siller?" 

"There  was  a  wee  letter  of  not  mair  than 
five  or  sax  lines  after  the  long  letter.  And  I 
saw  a  plain  £.  s.  d.  in  the  wee  letter;  but  auld 
Grahame  read  naething  about  pounds,  shillings, 
and  pence.  Not  he;  for  he  wouldna  gie  the 
name  o'  money  awa'  if  he  could  help  it.  But  I 
saw  him  look  at  thae  few  lines  wi'  the  very 
same  look  he  has  on  the  face  o'  him  when  I  — 
or  any  ither  body  —  asks  siller  of  him.  And 
somehow  I  kent  that  Walter  Grahame  wanted 
siller.  I  dinna  ken  what  told  me  sae ;  but  I'm 
right  —  sure." 

"  I  have  not  a  doubt,  Watty,  that  you  are 
right,  and  I'm  much  obliged  to  you  for  telling 
me.  You  hae  been  kinder  to  me  than  those 
that  owe  me  kindness." 

"  Nae  doot !  Folks  dinna  like  to  pay  what 
they  owe,  Carrick.  It  is  a  hantel  sight  easier 
to  give  than  to  pay.  I  can  gie  a  bawbee  to 
a  beggarman  mysel',  and  feel  heart  glad  to  do 
sae ;  but  I'm  aye  sick  to  death  if  I  hae  aught 


1 64  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

to  pay.  Whatna  for  are  you  angry  wi'  your 
bonnie  bairn  ?  She  just  rin  awa'  wi'  the  man 
she  liket  best." 

"  She  should  hae  liket  the  right  lad,  Watty, 
and  then  she  needna  hae  run  awa'  at  all." 

"  Ay,  that's  it !  "  answered  Watty  with  a 
puzzled,  thoughtful  air.  "  Folks  aye  like  what 
isn't  right.  I  do  mysel'.  Hae  you  seen  the 
blackbird's  nest  in  the  thorn-bush  ahint  your 
house,  Maister  Carrick  ? " 

"  I'm  past  minding  bird's  nests  now,  Watty." 

"  I'm  gey  sorry  for  you,  then.  You  wouldna 
be  sae  downhearted  if  you  wad  company  a  wee 
with  the  birds.  Thae  blackbirds,  now,  just 
ahint  your  house,  they  are  the  blithest  pair 
o'  foolish  birds  I  ever  had  ony  knowledge  o'. 
Four  wee  birdies  coming  all  at  ance !  And 
where  will  they  get  food  and  feathers  for  them  ? 
They  canna  tell  that,  and  yet  the  silly  things 
are  that  happy  and  conceited  wi'  themsel's  — 
he  singing,  and  she  twittering  and  tossing  her 
bonnie  head,  and  baith  o'  them  sure  that  they 
hae  the  only  perfect  nest  in  a'  the  wide  warld. 
It  is  simply  wonderful !  wonderful ! " 

Andrew  was  thinking  of  his  own  rifled  nest, 
and  he  had  no  sympathy  to  spare  for  Watty's 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  165 

"  twa-winged  creatures."  So  Watty  wandered 
away  with  his  sixpence  in  his  hand,  and  a  queer 
snatch  of  song  on  his  lips. 

However,  after  all,  this  poor  innocent  had 
given  Andrew  a  drop  of  comfort.  He  felt 
after  his  talk  with  him  —  for  he  had  such  con 
fidence  in  his  suppositions  regarding  Jeannie  — 
that  had  any  one  now  said  to  him  that  Jeannie 
was  not  mentioned  in  Walter's  letter,  he  would 
have  positively  denied  the  statement,  and  defied 
Grahame  to  prove  anything  contrary. 

But  no  one  ventured  to  say  to  Andrew's  face 
what  nearly  every  one  said  behind  his  back,  — 
that  wherever  Jeannie  Carrick  was,  it  was  mair 
than  likely  she  wasna  wi'  Walter  Grahame  now. 
She  might  hae  run  awa'  wi'  him,  but  she  hadna 
stayed  wi'  him. 

The  women  made  Ann  feel  this  opinion  ;  and 
in  some  of  the  many  occult  ways  known  to 
spiteful,  envious  women,  they  caused  even  her 
true  heart  sometimes  to  doubt  her  sister.  In 
fact,  Andrew,  in  the  self -absorption  of  his  own 
suffering,  quite  forgot  what  a  very  valley  of 
humiliation  Ann  was  treading.  Yet  he  might 
have  understood,  if  he  had  considered  his  daugh 
ter,  that  she  now  dreaded  the  Sabbath,  once  so 


1 66  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

dear  to  her  heart ;  that  the  Way  of  the  Kirk 
was  the  Way  of  the  Cross ;  that  she  came  home 
after  every  service  either  sorrowful  to  the  last 
point,  or  flaming  with  suppressed  feeling ;  that 
all  her  old  companions  had  ceased  calling  upon 
her  ;  that  she  got  no  invitations  now  to  rustic 
holiday-making  or  Kirk  festivals  ;  that,  in  fact, 
though  she  had  done  nothing  to  deserve  it,  she 
was  gradually  becoming  as  isolated  from  her 
kind  as  he  himself  was. 

It  was  impossible  that  the  girl  should  not 
feel  these  things  very  keenly  ;  but  yet  in  the 
lovely  summer  weather  she  fought  down  her 
sorrowful  or  angry  consciousness  with  consider 
able  success.  "  I  hae  good  company  with  a 
clear  conscience,"  she  said  to  herself.  And  her 
household  duties  kept  her  busy  from  early  to 
late  ;  besides  which,  she  fancied  that  her  father 
was  more  quiet  and  reasonable.  "  He  was  a 
wise  man  that  sent  father  to  the  hills  and 
moors,"  she  thought  ;  "for  he  is  drawing  the 
strength  o'  them  into  his  ain  heart.  And  I 
hope  he'll  be  himsel'  again  ere  the  winter  keeps 
him  at  home  a'  day  long." 

Undoubtedly  Andrew  was  better ;  and  one  of 
the  results  of  this  improvement  in  his  condi- 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  l6/ 

tion  was  a  hunger  for  the  sea.  As  the  fishing 
season  came  on,  the  desire  to  handle  the  sails, 
to  pull  in  the  nets,  and  to  face  again  the  strong 
winds  and  the  great  waves,  grew  daily  into  an 
irresistible  passion  ;  and  one  afternoon  he  said 
to  Ann,  as  he  hung  his  gun  over  the  mantle- 
piece,  — 

"  I  hae  come  hame  sooner  than  my  ordinary, 
Ann.  I  am  going  down  to  the  cottages,  to  see 
if  there  is  e'er  a  man  there  that  will  hae  me  to 
the  fishing  wi'  him." 

"  They  will  any  of  them  be  glad  of  your  help, 
father;  for  they  are  well  acquaint  with  your 
*  fish  sense '  and  your  strong  right  hand.  I'll 
have  a  drink  of  tea  in  ten  minutes  for  you, 
and  you  can  wash  your  face  and  comb  your 
hair  while  it  is  making."  For  Andrew  had 
fallen  off  very  much  from  the  sturdy,  cleanly 
simplicity  which  had  ever  marked  his  personal 
appearance;  and  Ann  feared  his  careless  dress 
might  make  old  acquaintances  think  less  favour 
ably  of  him  than  they  ought  to  think. 

So  Andrew  dressed  a  little  and  drank  his 
tea,  and,  full  of  a  fresh  hope,  walked  briskly 
down  toward  the  shingle.  Just  before  he 
reached  the  cottages  he  met  a  young  lad  whom 


l68  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

he  had  befriended  several  times ;  and  being  a 
little  out  of  breath,  and  perhaps  also  a  little 
uncertain  and  nervous,  he  sat  down  on  a  rock 
beside  him. 

"  Weel,  Johnnie,"  he  said,  "  how  goes  the 
warld  wi'  you  these  days  ?  " 

"Not  sae  badly,  Maister  Carrick  —  but  I'm 
not  for  changes,  and  there's  mair  coming  than 
I  like." 

"  Are  you  going  awa,'  Johnnie  ?  " 
"Ay,  I  am.     Mair  folks  than  me  going,  I'm 
sorry  to  say." 

"  Whar  are  you  going  to,  Johnnie  ? " 
"  Port  Braddon,  Maister  Carrick." 
"That  isna  far  awa'.     I'll  be  seeing  you  there 
if  you  want  to  see  me." 
"Ay,  that's  sae." 
"  Have  you  got  work,  Johnnie  ?  " 
"  I'll  just  bide  wi'  Thomas  Trool." 
"Then  Trool  is  going  to  Port  Braddon  too  ? " 
"Ay  —  and  others  likewise." 
"  How  many  mair  ? " 

"  Every  man,  woman,  and  bairn,  Maister  Car 
rick.  I  was  coming  up  to  the  Lone  House  to 
gie  you  an  inkling  o'  what  was  going  on,  —  for 
you  hae  been  gude  to  baith  my  poor  mither  and 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  169 

mysel',  —  and  then  I  saw  you  coming  down,  so 
I  said  to  mysel',  'Maister  Carrick  is  knowin' 
aboot  the  change.'" 

"  I  know  naething.  Nae  one  has  told  me 
o'  any  change.  If  you  know  aught,  you  might 
tell  me,  Johnnie  Morrison.  It  wad  only  be 
kind." 

"  Ay,  I'll  tell  you.  There  was  a  meeting  at 
Peter  Lochrigg's  last  night,  and  a'  the  men  said 
they  wad  call  on  you  come  Saturday  night,  and 
tell  you  the  'why'  they  are  going  to  move  into 
Port  Braddon.  They  hae  plenty  o'  reasons 
ready,  Maister  Carrick." 

"  Nae  doubt ;  nae  doubt.  When  did  an 
unkind  deed  want  plenty  o'  reasons  ?  Weel, 
Johnnie,  I'm  obliged  to  you,  lad,  for  giving 
me  a  bit  o'  time  to  prepare  mysel'." 

"You'll  say  naught  o'  me  if  you  please,  Mais 
ter  Carrick.  It  is  Peter  Lochrigg  that  will  speak 
to  you,  and  I'll  get  my  reproofs  if  it  is  heard 
tell  of,  that  I  said  either  this  or  that  anent 
the  flitting." 

"  I'll  get  you,  nor  none,  into  trouble,  John 
nie.  That  is  not  my  way  —  is  it  ? " 

"They  wad  be  liars  that  said  it  was,  sir  — 
and  I  hope  you  willna  think  hard  o'  me,  sir. 


I/O  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

You  ken  I'm  just  naebody  —  but  I  like  you 
weel,  Maister  Carrick.  Dinna  lay  ony  o'  the 
move  to  me,  sir.  Dinna  blame  me.  Maister 
Carrick.  I'm  keeping  mind  o'  your  kindness. 
Dinna  blame  me." 

"  I'll  blame  naebody,  Johnnie.  Folks  can 
do  no  mair  than  they  are  let  do."  Then  he 
turned  his  back  to  the  sea  and  the  cottages, 
and  walked  very  slowly  up  the  cliff. 

Ann  was  in  the  byre  when  he  reached  his 
home,  and  he  felt  glad  of  the  reprieve  ;  just  for 
a  little  it  would  be  hard  to  talk  on  the  subject, 
even  to  Ann.  That  the  cottages  at  Carrick's 
should  all  be  left  empty  and  deserted,  was  like 
destroying  the  very  foundations  of  his  life.  He 
was  so  stunned  by  the  news,  that  he  could  not 
at  once  realise  what  had  come  to  him. 

And  that  very  night,  while  his  heart  was  still 
quaking  and  trembling  from  this  great  shock, 
there  came  at  last  —  at  last  —  a  letter  from  Jean- 
nie.  In  a  quiver  of  excitement  Ann  carried  it 
to  him.  His  dark  face  flushed  crimson ;  his 
hands  trembled ;  he  opened  it  with  a  hurry  that 
was  almost  unnatural  in  a  man  of  his  slow,  de 
liberate  methods.  Ann  stood  watching  him  as 
he  read  it.  She  waited  with  the  greatest  anx- 


THE   LONE  HOUSE.  I? I 

iety  for  whatever  news  it  contained.  She  was 
shocked  to  see  him,  after  a  hasty  reading,  fling 
it  down  upon  the  table  in  a  rage. 

"  What  is  it,  father  ?  Is  Jeannie  a*  right  ? 
Will  you  not  speak  ? " 

"  Read  for  yoursel'." 

Ann  read  the  letter,  and  then,  sitting  down 
with  a  still  wrath,  said  not  one  word.  It  was 
indeed  a  very  provoking  letter  —  a  letter  which 
only  a  complacent,  thoughtless  selfishness  could 
have  written.  And  it  had  come  in  an  evil  hour. 
Jeannie  said  "she  was  so  happy,"  and  "Walter 
was  so  good  "  and  "so  clever,"  and  Australia 
had  been  made  specially  for  them.  Its  climate, 
its  society,  its  freedom,  its  riches,  were  so  much 
better  than  anything  to  be  found  in  "  poor  Scot 
land."  And  "  Walter  would  soon  be  a  rich  man, 
if  all  went  as  they  expected."  And  "she  had  a 
bonnie  girl  bairn,  and  had  called  it  Margaret  for 
her  mother."  And  "  she  hoped  Jock  Simpson 
came  quickly  with  her  letter,  because  she  did 
not  want  them  to  have  more  anxiety  than  she 
could  help."  "Walter  had  given  him  half  a 
crown  to  hurry,  and  was  not  that  good  of 
Walter  ? " 

There  was  no  word  of  sorrow,  no  sense  of 


172  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

any  wrong  done.  She  said  Walter  had  written 
a  while  ago  to  his  father,  and  she  hoped  there 
was  now  no  ill  will  between  Walter's  family 
and  her  own,  either  anent  Kirk  or  any  other 
matters.  It  was  so  much  better  for  families  to 
dwell  in  peace.  And  did  her  Cousin  Cosmo 
open  the  kirk,  and  would  Ann  tell  her  about 
the  silver  service  ?  And  this  and  that  of  pure 
selfish  happiness,  without  one  thought  for  the 
shame  and  sorrow  she  had  brought  upon  her 
sister  and  her  father. 

The  foolish  woman  had  really  meant  to  please 
and  conciliate  her  father ;  and  she  made  the 
mistake  all  selfish  people  make,  — she  was  sure 
that  the  things  which  pleased  her  must  be 
equally  pleasant  to  every  one  else.  But  An 
drew  felt  her  flourishing  happiness  and  her 
little  flings  at  "  poor  old  Scotland "  to  be  an 
insult  to  the  misery  which  she  had  brought 
upon  her  own  people  and  her  own  home. 

The  unfortunate  letter  lay  on  the  table  for 
an  hour,  then  Ann  lifted  it  and  made  as  if 
she  would  take  it  to  her  own  room.  Andrew 
stretched  out  his  hand  and  said  with  passion,  — 

"  Give  me  that  letter,  Ann  !  " 

She  gave  it  to  him  without  a  word. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  173 

And  he  cast  it  into  the  glowing  embers,  and 
watched  it  disappear  in  smoke  and  flame. 

"You  shouldn't  have  done  that,  father. 
Your  ain  bairn  wrote  the  words." 

"  The  mair  shame  and  wrong,  then." 

He  felt,  indeed,  at  that  hour  that  he  could 
forgive  Lochrigg  and  his  fellows,  the  minister 
and  the  elders  —  yea,  even  Grahame  himself, — 
more  easily  than  this  serpent  daughter,  who 
had  crept  into  his  heart  to  poison  his  whole 
life. 

He  laid  upon  Jeannie  then  all  the  sin  and 
sorrow  which  had  made  a  shadow  between  him 
and  his  Maker.  But  for  Jeannie's  folly  and 
selfish  indulgence  he  might  yet  be  honoured 
among  men  and  beloved  of  Heaven.  But  for 
Jeannie,  he  might  yet  be  singing  at  his  last. 
But  for  Jeannie,  he  might  be  happy  among  his 
mates  in  the  fishing  fleet.  Jeannie  had  driven 
him  from  the  kirk  and  the  market-place.  Jean 
nie  had  made  her  innocent  sister  to  be  ashamed 
in  any  gathering  of  the  lasses  of  her  own  age. 
Jeannie  had  been  a  canker  in  his  gold  also. 
Jeannie  had  separated  him  from  his  oldest 
friends. 

Because  of  Jeannie's  wickedness  and  decep- 


1/4  THE  LONE  HOUSE, 

tion  he  had  quarrelled  with  Peter  Lochrigg ; 
and  now,  in  consequence,  the  cottages  which 
had  been  his  pride  and  his  living  would  in  a 
few  months  be  left  desolate  —  monuments  of  a 
broken  tie,  which  nothing  could  ever  heal. 

And  she  was  "  so  happy  ! "  And  "  dear  Wal 
ter  "  was  so  prosperous  !  And  Australia  was 
"  so  grand  ! "  And  "  poor  old  Scotland  "  was 
"so  far  behind!"  And  she  "hoped  Grahame 
and  her  father  were  good  friends  "  !  His  oldest 
and  deepest  feelings  were  to  be  put  aside  be 
cause  of  her  "dear  Walter."  How  could  a  just 
Providence  permit  such  a  wrong  ? 

All  these  things  he  said  at  length,  and  with 
a  dour  anger,  to  Ann.  And  she  could  make 
but  little  defence  for  her  sister.  What,  in 
deed,  could  be  said,  except  that  "  Jeannie  loved 
Walter,  and  that  whiles  true  love  couldna  be 
reasoned  with  "  ? 

Then  Andrew  pointed  out  that  it  was  not  a 
true  love,  but  a  false  one.  "  When  I  bade  you 
baith,  yonder  night,  to  hae  naething  to  do  wi' 
Walter  Grahame,  neither  o'  you  had  thought  o' 
loving  the  lad.  If  one  was  mair  in  danger  than 
the  other,  it  was  you,  Ann  Carrick.  But  you 
put  my  commands  —  knowing  that  I  had  just 


THE   LONE  HOUSE.  1/5 

reasons  for  them  —  before  your  ain  will  and 
wish,  and  Walter  Grahame's  love  ne'er  troubled 
your  heart,  or  spoiled  your  meat,  or  hindered 
your  work.  If  your  sister  had  done  as  you  did, 
she  would  ne'er  have  cared  which  road  Walter 
Grahame  went  or  came,  and  all  the  misery  that 
has  followed  her  disobedience  and  false  love 
would  have  been  spared  baith  o'  us." 

"She  is  happy,  anyway,  father." 

"  I  dinna  believe  it.  She  will  eat  the  bread 
she  brewed  from  such  bitter  yeast  yet.  When 
that  day  comes,  God  help  her!" 

This  kind  of  conversation,  continued  for 
hours,  filled  the  heart  of  the  wronged  and  in 
censed  father  with  a  silent,  stern  anger,  such 
as  Ann  had  never  seen  in  him  before.  His 
face  was  terrible.  His  very  immobility  pre 
figured  an  interior  rage  which  could  not  find 
any  adequate  outward  manifestation. 

When  it  was  near  midnight  Ann  was  weary 
to  bear  any  more,  and  she  rose  and  locked  the 
doors,  and  covered  the  fire.  Andrew  sat  silent 
and  motionless  as  she  moved  softly  about. 
When  she  stood  before  him  with  her  night 
candle  in  her  hand,  and  said,  "God  be  with 
you  this  night,  father,"  he  suddenly  rallied, 


THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

and,  looking  steadily  at  her  for  a  moment 
said,  — 

"  You'll  bring  me  the  Bible,  Ann." 

"  I'll  be  right  glad  to  do  that,  father." 

"  And  the  ink-horn,  and  a  pen." 

She  brought  them  also.  But  ere  she  put 
them  on  the  table  she  asked,  — 

"  What  for  do  you  want  the  pen  and  the  ink- 
horn,  father  ? " 

"  I  want  it  to  cross  out  the  name  of  ane  wha 
has  nae  langer  part  nor  lot  in  my  heart  or 
house." 

"  Jeannie's  name?"    . 

"Ay  !     Gie  me  the  pen." 

"  Are  you  going  to  cross  Jeannie's  name  out 
o'  God's  Holy  Book  ? " 

"Just  that !     Gie  me  the  pen." 

"  I'll  not  do  it,  father !     No  !  I'll  never  do  it." 

"  Gie  me  the  pen  I  tell  you." 

"What  will  all  the  dead  and  gone  Carricks 
whose  names  stood  before  Jeannie's  name 
say  ? " 

"  They  will  say  —  I  have  done  right." 

"  What  will  mother  say  ?  " 

"  Gie  me  the  pen." 

"  No,  father !  I  canna  give  it  to  you  !     You 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  Iff 

shall  not  defile  your  soul,  nor  even  your  hands, 
with  such  a  like  sin  !  Give  me  the  Holy  Book. 
To-night  you  arena  fit  to  touch  the  cover  of 
it." 

"How  daur  you  speak  to  me,  wha  am  your 
father,  in  that  way  ?  How  daur  you  ?  Do  you 
ken  wha  you  are  talking  to  ?  Wha  you  are 
disobeying  ? " 

"  Father  !  I  never  disobeyed  you  in  anything 
before  this.  Reasonable  or  unreasonable,  your 
words  have  aye  been  a  law  to  me.  But  I  will 
not  let  you  cross  Jeannie's  name  out  of  the 
Bible.  I'll  no  do  it !  It  would  be  a  sin  worse 
than  murder ! " 

"  Gie  me  the  pen  and  ink.  Do  as  I  bid 
you." 

She  dashed  the  bottle  upon  the  spotless  floor, 
and  pointed  to  the  great  black  splash.  "  It  is 
better  there  than  on  your  soul,  father." 

"  Sae  you  have  turned  against  me  too  !  " 

She  fell  upon  her  knees  at  his  side,  and  lay 
ing  her  head  against  his  breast,  she  sobbed 
with  a  heart-broken  passion  that  terrified  and 
finally  quieted  him.  Her  grief  seemed  greater 
than  his  own.  He  could  not  help  being  touched 
by  her  despairing  anguish.  He  soothed  her 


178  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

with  tender  words,  and,  rising  to  his  feet,  he 
lifted  her  up,  saying,  — 

"  Go  to  your  sleep,  my  dear  bairn.  I'll  spare 
the  name  — for  your  sake." 

Then  he  went  to  his  room  and  locked  the 
door. 

Ann  sank,  sick  and  trembling,  into  the  chair 
her  father  had  vacated.  It  was  some  time  be 
fore  she  could  gather  strength  and  composure 
for  any  further  effort.  She  had  exhausted  feel 
ing  ;  she  had  almost  exhausted  thought.  For 
ten  minutes  she  sat  completely  passive,  with 
her  head  thrown  back  against  the  chair,  and  her 
hands  dropped  upon  her  lap.  She  was  terrified 
at  her  own  daring,  and  prostrated  by  her  victory. 

Her  first  action  was  to  open  the  Bible  at 
those  leaves  between  the  Testaments  which 
contained  the  family  register  for  nearly  two 
hundred  years.  Such  a  long  list  of  Carricks, 
male  and  female !  And  Jeannie's  name  was 
last.  She  looked  at  it  until  the  tears  dropped 
upon  the  letters.  She  softly  touched  it.  Then, 
with  a  prayer  in  her  heart,  she  stooped  and 
kissed  it.  And  as  she  reverently  laid  the  book 
in  its  proper  place,  she  said  with  whispered  but 
intense  emotion,  — 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  1 79 

"O  mother!  mother!  For  your  dear  sake, 
as  well  as  for  Jeannie's  sake,  I  will  spend  my 
heart's  blood  ere  I  will  see  the  name  so  dear 
to  us  both  blotted  out ! " 


CHAPTER   IX. 

Show  me  the  way  that  leadeth  unto  Thee; 
Though  it  be  difficult,  Thou  art  all  might ; 
Though  it  be  dark,  Thou  art  the  Living  Light. 

A  NDREW  was  singularly  quiet  next  day. 
•*»•  But  Ann's  heart  ached  for  him.  He 
walked  up  and  down,  muttering,  "  Would  God 
but  gie  me  sleep !  Would  God  but  gie  me 
sleep !  But  that  he  gie's  only  to  his  beloved. 
Wae's  me  !  Wae's  me  !  " 

The  man  was  breaking  fast,  and  the  deser 
tion  of  the  cottages  was  like  a  coup  de  grace. 
But  the  iron  thews  and  nerves  of  steel  by  which 
he  was  encompassed  made  the  struggle  a  long 
and  frightful  one.  And  his  sufferings,  both 
mental  and  physical,  were  so  evident  and  ex 
treme  that  it  was  painful  to  be  a  witness  to 
them. 

On  the  next  Saturday  night  Peter  Lochrigg 

came  up  to  the  Lone  House  to  tell  Carrrick  of 

the  intention  of  the  colony  to  remove  into  Port 

Braddon.     Peter  had  promised  himself  to  say 

180 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  l8l 

some  very  plain  truths  to  Andrew.  But  when 
the  two  men  met,  Peter  was  dumb  before  his 
old  friend.  For  Andrew's  haggardness  was 
extreme ;  and  the  sorrowful  watching  of  the 
night  seasons  had  left  such  a  haunted,  seeking, 
reproachful  look  in  his  dark  grey  eyes,  that 
Peter  dropped  his  own  before  it.  He  could 
not  say  one  hard  word  to  Andrew. 

Indeed,  he  speedily  began  to  excuse  himself 
and  others  for  the  intended  removal.  He 
said,  — 

"  Ye  see,  Carrick,  we  are  naturally  sorry  to 
leave  our  auld  hames  ;  but  times  have  changed, 
and  we  be  to  change  wi'  them,  or  else  go  to  the 
wall.  Ye  ken  yourself  that  the  harbour  is  gey 
hard  to  make  in  bad  weather,  and  that  the  new 
quay  at  Port  Braddon  is  a  vera  great  tempta 
tion.  We  can  land  our  feesh  at  their  best  mar 
ket  ;  and  that  will  spare  baith  oor  wives  and 
oursel's  many  a  weary  tramp." 

"  I  ken  a'  that,  Peter.  Ye  hae  the  right  to 
look  to  your  ain  interest,  of  coorse." 

"We  have,  Carrick.  Then  ye  ken  as  weel 
as  I  do  that  there  isna  a  place  a  body  can  buy 
a  loaf  o'  bread,  or  a  paper  of  pins  or  needles, 
near  by.  The  women-folk  will  find  the  shops  a 
vera  great  convenience." 


1 82  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

"  Ay  !  and  the  men-folk  will  find  them  a  vera 
great  expense,  or  I  am  much  mista'en." 

"  That  is  like  enou'.  Forbye,  ye  ken  we  are 
a  kirk-going  people;  and  we  sail  be  thankfu', 
indeed,  baith  in  the  heat  o'  the  summer,  and  in 
the  storm  o'  the  winter,  to  hae  the  kirk  at  oor 
doorstones,  as  it  were.  Many  a  profitable  oc 
casion  we  hae  missed  for  the  weather  or  the 
distance.  It  is  a  great  joy  to  us  a'  to  think 
of  the  Sabbath-day  privileges." 

Andrew  listened,  but  as  one  who  heard  not. 

"  I  was  speaking  to  the  minister  anent  the 
change,"  continued  Peter,  "and  he  thought  it 
ought  to  hae  been  made  lang  syne.  I  said  it 
wad  hae  been  made  lang  syne  if  we  had  not  had 
a  Carrick  for  oor  landlord." 

"  Thank  you,  Peter !  A  kind  word  is  a 
strange  thing  to  me.  It  maist  breaks  me  up." 

"  We  sail  never  forget  you,  Carrick.  There 
has  been  gude  days  atween  us.  We  hope  you 
willna  tak'  oor  moving  to  heart." 

"  Ay,  it  hurts  me,  Peter  !  But  it  is  only  ane 
mair  hurt.  Every  ane  must  do  the  best  they 
can  for  their  ain  side.  When  the  bridge  is 
passed,  what  need  to  praise  it  ?  There's  nae 
harm  whar  nane  is  meant." 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  183 

Andrew's  hopeless  look  and  sad,  monotonous 
voice  went  perforce  to  Peter's  heart,  and  he 
said  in  a  tone  of  kind  entreaty,  — 

"  Maybe,  Carrick,  you  wad  feel  like  going 
with  the  boats  an  orra  time.  I'll  be  glad  to 
hae  you  wi'  me.  I'm  sorry  to  see  you  looking 
sae  little  like  yourselV 

"  I'll  not  go,  Peter.  I  wad  only  be  a  Jonah 
in  the  boats,  and  I  wad  be  loath  to  bring  ill-luck 
to  any  o'  you.  But  I'm  thankfu'  for  the  offer." 

He  turned  sadly  away,  leaving  the  money 
Peter  had  brought  upon  the  table.  This  indif 
ference  to  the  siller  touched  Peter  more  than 
words.  He  knew  that  Andrew  Carrick  must 
indeed  be  in  a  maze  of  grief  when  he  forgot 
his  money.  He  had  pleased  himself  with  the 
thought  of  the  mortification  and  loss  he  was 
bringing  to  the  Lone  House  ;  and  he  went  away 
from  it  ashamed  of  his  animosity,  and  feeling 
something  very  like  reverence  for  a  man  in  such 
deep  and  manifest  trouble. 

After  this  there  were  many  days  in  which 
Andrew  ceased  to  struggle.  He  had  nearly 
reached  that  saddest  of  all  spiritual  conditions, 
—  the  hopeless  apathy  of  a  soul  subjugated  by 
despair. 


1 84  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

One  morning  in  July  —  a  hot,  dry  morning  — 
he  went  very  early  to  the  hills.  Not  far  from 
the  house  there  was  a  large  flat  rock  raised  on 
natural  boulders,  about  as  high  as  an  ordinary 
table.  It  had  often  been  used  for  preaching 
and  sacramental  purposes  by  the  Covenanting 
congregations,  and  it  was  still  known  as  the 
Martyrs'  Stone. 

It  was  Andrew's  favourite  resort.  When  the 
sun  was  high,  he  lay  among  the  brackens  be 
neath  it.  When  it  was  cool  and  pleasant,  he 
sat  beside  it,  watching  the  sea  and  the  boats,  or 
the  high  road  running  past  his  own  house. 

This  day  he  went  directly  there,  and  Ann 
saw  him  at  intervals  all  the  morning  in  the  vi 
cinity.  About  mid-afternoon  there  were  signs 
of  a  storm.  The  air  was  tenuous,  the  heat 
oppressive,  the  sea  black  and  motionless.  She 
looked  anxiously  toward  the  stone,  and  saw  her 
father  begin  to  descend  the  hill.  There  were 
already  large  drops  of  rain,  and  the  sough  of  a 
coming  wind.  The  cattle  were  coming  lowing 
home,  and  she  went  and  opened  the  byre  for 
them.  Ere  she  had  finished  this  task  the  air 
was  black  with  rain.  "  Father  will  be  wetted 
through  ere  he  wins  name,"  she  thought ;  and 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  185 

she  hastened  to  lay  ready  some  dry  clothing, 
and  to  build  up  the  fire,  and  hang  the  kettle 
over  it. 

In  the  meantime  Andrew  had  nearly  reached 
the  road,  when  he  heard  the  sound  of  a  gallop 
ing  horse.  The  traveller  came  on  at  full  speed, 
with  his  plaid  folded  tight  around  him,  his  bon 
net  drawn  down  to  his  eyes,  and  his  head  bent 
to  the  storm.  It  was  David  Grahame. 

As  soon  as  Andrew  Carrick  saw  him,  the 
devil  entered  into  his  heart.  The  animal  desire 
for  revenge  dominated  every  other  feeling ;  and 
yet  so  subtly  was  the  spiritual  element  inter 
woven  in  the  fibres  of  his  being,  that  in  the 
same  instant  in  which  he  determined  to  kill 
Grahame,  he  began  to  justify  the  deed,  and  to 
seek  a  sign  that  it  was  the  Lord  who  had  deliv 
ered  his  enemy  into  his  hand. 

"  I'll  count  forty  save  ane,"  he  said  fiercely, 
"and  then  I'll  fire!  If  it  be  God's  will  to  rid 
me  o'  the  troubler  o'  my  peace,  he  will  send 
the  bullet  to  its  ain  place  ;  and  if  this  occasion 
be  laid  upon  me,  I  willna  daur  to  shirk  it." 

He  stood  firmly  on  the  mass  of  boulders,  with 
his  gun  levelled  at  the  spot  which  Grahame 
must  pass.  Then  he  counted  off  the  allotted 


1 86  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

numbers  with  the  strictest  justice  and  imparti 
ality  —  consciously  neither  delaying  nor  hurry 
ing,  although  he  feared  for  a  moment  that 
Grahame  must  pass  the  appointed  spot  ere  he 
reached  the  "  thirty-nine,"  which  would  give 
him  his  self-appointed  right  to  fire.  But  he 
kept  faithfully  the  engagement  he  had  made 
with  himself. 

"  Thirty-eight !  thirty-nine  !  "  Grahame  was 
on  the  very  spot.  Andrew's  finger  was  on  the 
trigger.  But  he  never  fired.  There  was  a  daz 
zling  light,  a  terrific  crash,  and  a  fury  of  wind 
and  rain  that  is  indescribable.  Grahame  was 
riding  safely  down  the  road.  Andrew  had 
fallen  to  the  ground,  smitten  by  the  fire  of 
Heaven. 

For  another  hour  the  storm  raged,  and  Ann 
walked  from  one  door  to  another,  anxiously 
watching  for  some  sign  of  her  father  But,  as 
she  saw  nothing  of  him,  she  concluded  that  he 
had  found  the  wind  too  strong  to  face,  and  had 
gone  back  to  the  Martyrs'  Stone,  and  taken 
shelter  beneath  it.  "  He'll  be  home  when  the 
storm  is  over,"  she  thought,  "  unless,  maybe,  he 
passed  round  the  hill,  with  the  storm  at  his 
back,  and  sheltered  himself  with  Logic  Harri- 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  1 87 

bee.  If  that  was  the  road  he  went,  then  Logic 
will  convoy  him  home  when  he  comes  out  to 
look  after  the  sheep  and  lambs." 

But  when  the  rain  had  subsided,  and  there 
were  even  stray  gleams  of  watery  sunshine,  and 
still  no  signs  of  Andrew's  return,  Ann  became 
very  miserable.  And  yet  she  hesitated  about 
going  up  the  hill  to  seek  her  father,  because  he 
was  extremely  sensitive  to  any  apparent  fear  of 
his  safety.  Several  times  when  he  had  met 
Ann  coming  up  the  hill  as  if  she  were  anxious 
concerning  him,  he  had  angrily  inquired,  "what 
she  was  frighted  for  ?  Was  he  a  bairn  to  be 
watched  ?  Or  didna  he  hae  sense  enou'  to 
keep  himsel'  oot  o'  danger  ?  " 

So  with  a  very  unhappy  heart  Ann  hurriedly 
finished  her  dairy  work.  She  had  resolved 
when  it  was  attended  to,  to  send  some  one  to 
seek  the  absent  man,  if  by  that  time  he  had 
not  returned  home.  When  the  work  was  done, 
it  was  growing  to  a  misty  twilight;  and  Ann 
felt  that  search  must  be  no  longer  delayed. 
Indeed,  her  soul  had  been  urging  and  hurrying 
her  for  some  time,  and  she  could  no  longer 
endure  the  sense  of  coming  trouble  which 
pressed  her  on  every  side.  At  last,  trembling 


1 88  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

with  an  uncontrollable  fear,  she  ran  with 
breathless  haste  down  to  the  cottages. 

Peter  Lochrigg  was  standing  at  his  open 
door,  smoking.  She  laid  her  hand  upon  his 
arm,  and  said  with  an  eager  entreaty,  — 

"  Peter,  Peter  !  My  father  hasna  come 
home!  He  was  on  the  hillside  by  the  Mar 
tyrs'  Stone  when  the  storm  began,  and  I'm 
feared  !  I'm  feared  !  O  Peter,  Peter !  I  dinna 
ken  what  is  the  matter !  " 

Peter  took  in  the  situation  at  once.  Ere 
Ann  had  finished  speaking,  he  had  put  on  his 
bonnet,  and  was  throwing  his  plaid  around  his 
shoulders,  and  calling  for  Johnnie  Gilhaize  and 
Robbie  Boyd.  And  the  three  men  went  to 
gether  at  a  run  up  the  cliff-side. 

"  Come  in  and  rest  a  wee,  Ann,"  said  Sarah 
Lochrigg.  "  You  hae  lost  your  breath.  My 
father  will  be  sure  to  find  Carrick." 

"  O  Sarah,  I  have  a  heart  heavy  as  lead  ! 
I'm  sure  there  is  something  far  wrong.  I'll 
not  be  for  waiting  a  minute  —  they  will  be 
needing  me,  I  doubt." 

"Then  I'll  go  wi'  you,  Ann.  If  help  is  re 
quired,  there's  nane  has  mair  right,  nor  mair 
good-will,  to  gie  it." 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  189 

"I'm  thankfu'  to  you,  Sarah;"  and  the  two 
girls  went  hastily  and  silently  back  to  the  Lone 
House.  As  they  entered  it,  they  saw  Peter  and 
Robbie  Boyd  coming,  bearing  between  them 
their  insensible  burden.  Johnnie  Gilhaize  had 
been  already  sent  over  the  hills  to  Port  Braddon 
for  the  doctor. 

And  when  Peter  laid  Carrick  down  upon  his 
bed,  his  eyes  were  full  of  tears.  In  that  hour 
all  Andrew's  faults  were  forgiven  and  forgotten, 
and  the  man  in  his  old  pleasant  aspects  came  back 
to  memory.  The  ill-will  and  the  petty  anger  of 
the  past  year  or  two  faded  away  like  a  cloud ; 
and  the  long,  long  friendship,  binding  the  cot 
tages  to  the  Lone  House,  came  back  in  all  its 
strength  and  sweetness. 

Andrew's  very  helplessness  appealed  to  these 
strong  men  in  a  peculiarly  vivid  way.  He  had 
been  stronger  than  any  of  them ;  and  he  now 
lay  at  their  mercy,  dependent  on  their  help 
as  a  new-born  babe,  and  racked  by  intolerable 
pain.  Peter  and  his  mates  had  said  many 
unkind  things  during  the  past  year  of  An 
drew,  but  they  were  now  thoroughly  ashamed 
of  their  want  of  charity ;  and  the  kindness 
of  so  many  generations  proved  itself,  in  this 


THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

extremity,  to  have  lost  nothing  of  its  first 
sincerity. 

Indeed,  during  the  days  and  weeks  of  sor 
row  and  suffering  and  anxiety  which  followed, 
it  nobly  vindicated  itself.  The  men  in  turns 
watched  constantly  by  Andrew's  bedside;  and 
the  women  relieved  Ann  of  all  stress  of  house 
hold  labour.  For  the  shock  to  Andrew's  sys 
tem  had  been  all  but  deadly  in  its  force ;  and 
his  long  exposure  to  the  rain,  though  it  had  per 
haps  saved  him  from  death  by  lightning,  had 
induced  another  disease  of  an  acute  and  dan 
gerous  character.  For  nearly  three  months 
Andrew  held  to  existence  only  upon  a  tenure 
of  extremest  physical  suffering. 

One  morning  he  awoke  as  from  some  awful 
dream.  He  was  in  his  right  mind,  but  pitifully 
weak. 

"  Ann ! " 

It  was  only  a  whisper,  but  she  heard  it,  and 
was  at  his  side  in  a  moment. 

"My  dear,  dear  father!  Are  you  feeling 
better  ? " 

"  Ay,  thank  God  !     What  time  is  it  ?  " 

"It  is  near  the  noon-hour.  Will  you  have 
aught?" 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  IQI 

"  Ay ;  open  the  shutters,  and  let  in  the  light. 
I  hae  been  lang  in  the  Valley  o'  the  Shadow  — 
sae  lang  !  sae  lang  !  " 

"  The  shutters  are  open,  father  !  " 

She  spoke  very  low,  holding  his  wasted  hands 
in  hers,  and  letting  her  tears  down-fall  upon 
them. 

"  What  is  it  ?  Ann !  Ann  !  tell  me  !  Is  it 
light  in  the  room  ? " 

"  Broad  noonday.     O  father,  father,  father !  " 

"  Blind  !  blind  !  blind  !  Nae  sun,  nae  moon, 
nae  face  o'  bairn  or  friend !  Oh,  my  God,  be 
mercifu' !  be  mercifu' !  " 

There  was  a  moment  of  intense,  anguished 
silence. 

Then  Cosmo  Carrick,  who  had  been  sitting 
at  the  foot  of  the  bed,  rose,  and,  taking  An 
drew's  hand,  said  in  low,  gentle  tones,  — 

"  '  It  is  good  that  a  man  should  both  hope 
and  quietly  wait  for  the  salvation  of  the 
Lord. 

"'He  sitteth  alone  and  keepeth  silence,  be 
cause  he  hath  borne  it  upon  him. 

"'He  putteth  his  mouth  in  the  dust,  if  so 
there  may  be  hope. 

"  He  giveth  his  cheek  to  him  that  smiteth 
him :  he  is  filled  full  with  reproach. 


192  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

"  For  the  Lord  will  not  cast  off  for  ever  : 

"  But  though  he  cause  grief,  yet  will  he 
have  compassion  according  to  the  multitude  of 
his  mercies. 

"  For  he  doth  not  afflict  willingly  nor  grieve 
the  children  of  men. 

"  Let  us  lift  up  our  heart  with  our  hands  unto 
God  in  the  heavens. 

"  Thou  drewest  near  in  the  day  that  I 
called  upon  thee:  thou  saidst,  Fear  not."  — 
Lam.  iii. 

Andrew  clasped  his  cousin's  hand,  but  he 
was  far  too  weak  and  prostrate  to  answer. 
Ann  gave  him  a  few  spoonfuls  of  nourishment, 
and  Cosmo  wiped  away  the  large  tears  that 
slowly  rolled  down  his  face.  And  the  way  of 
God  with  a  man's  soul  is  one  which  no  human 
intellect  can  follow.  The  moment  had  come 
when  the  lost  sheep,  called  in  vain  through  all 
the  pleasant  valleys  of  life,  answered  at  length 
out  of  the  dark  valley  of  the  shadow  of  death. 
And  oh,  how  grand  is  the  triumph  reserved 
for  those  who  submit  !  Andrew  from  his 
crushed  heart  only  whispers,  "  Thy  will  be 
done  !  "  And  instantly  that  peace  which  pass- 
eth  understanding  was  with  him. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  193 

"  Tho'  sin  too  oft  when  smitten  by  Thy  rod 
Rail  at  blind  Fate,  with  many  a  vain  '  Alas  ! ' 
From  sin  through  sorrow  into  Thee  we  pass, 
By  that  same  path  our  true  forefathers  trod. 

Steel  me  with  patience  !  soften  me  with  grief ! 
Let  blow  the  trumpet  strongly  while  I  pray, 
Till  this  embattled  wall  of  unbelief, 
My  prison,  not  my  fortress,  fall  away." 


CHAPTER   X. 

In  the  latter  days 
The  Lord  thy  "  Provider  "  shall  giro 

When  thou  knowest  His  gift. 
Look  back !  thou  wert  blinded  and  wandering 

To  the  light  thou  art  brought ! 
Consider!  shall  Allah  forego  thee 

Since  thus  He  hath  wrought. 

Koran. 

Return  unto  thy  rest,  O  my  soul!  for  the  Lord  shall  deal  bounti 
fully  with  thee. 

Psalms. 

A  NDREW  came  very  slowly  back  to  life, 
•«*  but  he  was  surrounded  and  supported 
during  his  long  convalescence  by  ever-present, 
never-ceasing  manifestations  of  that  divine  and 
human  love,  for  the  lack  of  which  he  had  nearly 
perished.  No  one  had  before  suspected  the 
over-mastering  need  in  this  man's  nature  for 
affection  ;  it  was  really  the  first  necessity  of 
his  apparently  rugged  temper,  and  when  he  was 
deprived  of  it,  he  withered  and  pined  like  a 
plant  in  a  hot,  unwatered  place.  His  better 
part  fell  into  decay,  and  he  suffered  agonies, 
194 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  195 

from  what  may  be  accurately  defined  as  hunger 
of  the  heart  and  soul. 

It  is  generally  the  case  that  in  physical  hun 
ger,  the  sufferer  has  nearly  to  perish  before 
attention  is  called,  and  sympathy  and  help  ex 
tended;  so  also  in  this  more  pitiful  necessity 
of  the  soul,  the  man  had  to  go  down  to  the 
grave's  mouth  before  his  complaint  was  under 
stood  and  answered. 

But  no  sooner  was  Andrew  Carrick  said  to 
be  dying,  than  he  filled  again  the  place  which 
his  honour  and  integrity  had  long  before  taken 
for  him.  All  his  faults  were  excused  ;  and  peo 
ple  began  to  accuse  themselves,  privately,  of  an 
unkind  disregard  of  his  feelings,  and  of  grave 
injustice  to  his  deserts.  The  good  he  had  done 
was  remembered ;  his  faults  allowed  for  ;  his  very 
attitude  of  proud,  uncomplaining  retirement 
awoke  again  toward  him  a  public  expression  of 
sympathy.  Prayers  were  offered  specially  in 
the  kirk  for  his  recovery,  and  the  ministers  and 
elders  in  their  turns  visited  regularly  the  Lone 
House ;  while  even  David  Grahame  was  point 
edly  reproved  by  his  own  minister  for  express 
ing  himself  in  what  he  considered  an  improper 
manner  concerning  Andrew's  eternal  prospects. 


1<)6  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

As  for  the  fishers  at  "Carrick's,"  they  were 
Ann's  strength  and  stay  throughout  all  the 
days  of  Andrew's  affliction  ;  for  when  Peter 
Lochrigg  carried  home  the  insensible  form  of 
his  old  friend,  and  laid  it  gently  down  on  the 
bed,  he  laid  down  also  all  his  animosity ;  and 
the  tears  he  let  fall  on  Andrew's  face  were  for 
his  own  unkindness,  as  well  as  for  Andrew's 
condition.  Although  it  was  the  busiest  season 
of  the  year,  some  one  of  the  little  colony  always 
stayed  at  the  Lone  House,  and  the  rest  did  his 
work  in  the  boats.  For  without  the  aid  of  their 
strong  arms  to  lift  and  turn  the  suffering  form, 
Andrew  must  have  lacked  many  a  moment's 
relief  and  soothing  change. 

Other  help  quite  as  important  had  been  freely 
rendered  by  the  women  of  the  cottages  in  the 
household  labours ;  not  for  one  or  two,  but  for 
many  weeks ;  and  better  still,  Cosmo  Carrick, 
on  the  first  news  of  his  cousin's  affliction,  had 
come  to  him.  Then  finding  how  serious  the 
case  was,  he  made  arrangements  for  the  supply 
•Df  his  pulpit,  and  devoted  himself  absolutely  to 
the  apparently  dying  man.  He  also  brought 
from  Edinburgh  the  best  medical  counsel  to  be 
procured ;  and  all  these  things  were  aided  and 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  1 97 

guided  by  Ann's  never-failing  care  and  never- 
ceasing  love. 

Thus  it  happened  that  it  was  Cosmo's  voice 
which  dropped  into  the  shocked  and  wounded 
heart  of  the  blind  convalescent  the  first  noble 
words  of  comfort  and  assurance.  But  it  was 
not  apparent  to  Andrew  at  first  how  much  he 
needed  these  words.  He  was  so  weak  that  si 
lence  and  darkness  were  grateful.  He  wanted 
nothing  of  earth  but  a  few  spoonfuls  of  food 
and  a  few  tender  words.  It  was  now  that  An 
drew  received  back  the  bread  cast  upon  the 
waters  so  many  years  before.  For  in  the  dark 
ness  that  enveloped  the  prostrate  man,  it  was 
Cosmo's  voice  that  filled  the  empty  void  with 
words  of  such  infinite  pity  as  He  gives  to  his 
beloved  when  He  makes  all  their  bed  in  their 
sickness. 

In  these  days  Andrew  grew  so  fond  of  the 
young  man,  that  he  could  not  bear  to  feel  him 
absent  ;  and  he  always  fell  into  those  deep,  life- 
giving  sleeps  —  every  one  of  which  were  so 
precious — holding  Cosmo's  hand  in  his  own. 
For  Cosmo  did  not  leave  Andrew  until  he  was 
able  to  sit  awhile  in  his  chair.  Indeed,  he  never 
needed  him  more  than  on  that  first  pitiful  day 


198  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

when  the  smitten  man  tried  once  more  to  walk, 
and  found  that  he  had  no  light  to  help  his 
trembling  steps.  It  was  with  Cosmo's  arm 
around  him  that  he  reached  his  place,  and  felt 
the  glow  of  the  bright  hearth-fire,  though  he 
could  no  more  see  the  flame. 

Convalescence  is  hard.  Active  sympathy  has 
become  a  little  weary  ;  the  dear  one  is  saved 
and  safe  ;  and  duties  forgotten  or  neglected 
have  to  be  overtaken  and  attended  to.  There 
appears,  therefore,  to  be  a  marked  subsidence 
of  affection  and  interest ;  and  the  invalid,  weak, 
sensitive,  and  yet  eager  for  life  and  his  own 
share  in  it,  feels  set  aside  without  vocation  of 
any  kind,  perhaps  even  a  little  as  if  in  the  way. 

Cosmo  understood  this  position ;  and  before 
returning  to  Edinburgh  he  pointed  out  its  dan 
ger  to  Ann,  and  made  her  perceive  that  these 
days  were  really  the  ones  which  would  likely 
colour  and  determine  all  Andrew's  future  life. 

So  that  Ann  felt  the  charge  of  her  father  to 
be  a  very  grave  one.  But  this  time  she  did 
not  lose  help  and  comfort  for  want  of  seeking 
it.  She  told  Peter  frankly  on  what  side  danger 
lay  with  her  father ;  and  Peter  entered  warmly 
into  her  plans  for  keeping  him  hopeful  and 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  1 99 

cheerful.  He  made  a  point  of  spending  Satur 
day  and  Sunday  evenings  with  Andrew.  He 
told  him  all  the  news  of  the  sea,  and  generally 
ended  his  gossip  about  the  boats  with  some 
knotty  problem  of  St.  Paul's,  or  some  point  in 
the  last  sermon  which  he  "couldna  agree  wi'." 

Indeed,  there  were  few  days  in  which  some 
acquaintance  from  the  cottages,  or  from  Port 
Braddon,  did  not  "  make  it  in  his  way  "  to  call 
and  have  a  chat  with  Andrew  as  he  passed. 
And  Andrew  grew  neighbourly  in  his  old  age, 
with  so  much  neighbourliness.  He  heard  all 
that  was  going  on,  and  he  saw  through  the 
eyes  of  others  the  changes  constantly  occur 
ring  in  the  places  familiar  to  him.  Cosmo 
also  came  frequently  to  see  him,  and  these  were 
times  of  rejoicing  indeed.  What  Cousin  Cosmo 
said  supplied  him  with  matter  and  conversation 
enough  between  one  visit  and  another. 

It  did  not  strike  Andrew  that  these  visits 
might  have  some  other  object  beside  his  own 
comfort  and  gratification.  Before  Jeannie  so 
sorely  disappointed  him,  he  had  thought  of  a 
marriage  between  Jeannie  and  Cosmo.  But 
Ann  marrying  had  always  seemed  to  be  a  thing 
very  far  off  to  him.  The  Lone  House  would 


20O  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

be  at  a  standstill  without  Ann.  No  one  else 
knew  anything  about  its  resources  and  their 
management.  And,  as  far  as  he  was  concerned, 
that  Ann  should  marry  was  not  to  be  thought 
of.  Who  else  was  there  to  look  after  his  crea 
ture  comforts  ?  —  to  see  that  the  last  ounce  of 
butter  was  taken  from  the  milk,  and  that  no 
wastrie  was  made  with  the  plenishing  and  the 
victuals  ?  Ann  was  the  soul  of  the  Lone 
House,  and  Andrew  could  not  conceive  of  the 
place  without  her. 

But  Jeannie  he  had  destined  for  the  high 
office  of  the  minister's  wife.  After  that  event 
ful  visit  to  Edinburgh,  in  which  he  first  made 
his  cousin's  acquaintance,  he  had  dreamed  many 
fine  dreams  for  Jeannie  and  himself.  When 
ever  he  wanted  a  delicious  smoke,  he  smoked 
to  the  thought  of  Jeannie  as  the  mistress  of 
Cosmo's  handsome  manse.  He  thought  of  the 
pleasant  visits  he  should  then  make  to  Edin 
burgh  ;  of  sitting  in  the  minister's  pew  to  hear 
his  son-in-law  preach ;  yes,  he  even  imagined 
the  bonnie  lads  and  lassies  which  would  call 
him  "grandfather,"  and  especially  one,  who 
would  be  named  "  Andrew,"  and  who  would 
be  his  own  particular  pride  and  joy. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  2OI 

Well,  Jeannie  had  flung  these  splendidly 
happy  prospects  away;  and  it  never  occurred 
to  him  that  Cosmo  would  be  inclined  to  dream 
of  Ann  Carrick  as  he  had  dreamt  of  Jeannie. 
But  such  was  nevertheless  the  case.  It  was, 
indeed,  the  most  likely  of  all  events ;  for  it 
would  have  been  a  very  poor,  selfish  man  who 
could  have  prevented  himself  from  admiring 
Ann  Carrick  in  her  beautiful  daily  life  of 
heroism  and  self-denial. 

It  is  true  Ann  had  lost  her  first  girlish 
beauty,  —  its  fresh  bloom  and  its  easy  grace. 
But  in  other  respects  she  was  a  far  handsomer 
woman.  For  flesh  and  blood  had  been  in 
formed  by  spirit,  and  mere  physical  loveliness 
refined  by  suffering.  Her  colour  was  less  bril 
liant  and  her  figure  less  slim ;  but  oh,  what 
consideration  she  had  for  her  helpless  father ! 
what  wonderful  patience !  what  constant  help 
fulness  !  Then  what  neatness,  order,  and  econ 
omy  she  showed  in  all  her  domestic  duties ; 
and  how  unfailingly  cheerful  she  was  in  all  the 
perplexities  of  her  daily  life  !  Cosmo  was  not 
insensible  to  her  fair  face  and  graceful  form, 
but  these  moral  beauties  were  infinitely  more 
charming  in  his  sight. 


2O2  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

However,  he  said  nothing  definite  at  this 
time.  Perhaps,  indeed,  Ann  in  some  womanly 
way  prevented  it ;  for  she  was  well  aware  how 
cruel  a  question  it  would  be  now  to  her  father. 
She  was  all  he  had.  It  would  be  impossible 
to  leave  him.  His  personal  necessities,  greater 
than  ever,  were  now  constant  necessities  ;  and 
he  looked  to  his  daughter  not  only  for  the 
material  comforts  and  pleasures  he  could  enjoy, 
but  also  for  that  sympathy  in  his  affliction 
which  was  an  ever  present  craving. 

After  Cosmo's  return  to  Edinburgh,  the 
Lone  House  soon  fell  into  a  generally  regular 
way  of  life.  Ann  rose  much  earlier  than  she 
had  ever  done  before,  and  hastened  all  her 
household  work,  so  that  she  could  be  at  her 
father's  side.  If  it  were  fine  weather,  she 
walked  with  him  a  little ;  but,  fine  or  wet, 
she  read  many  hours  every  day  to  him.  Not 
alone  in  the  Bible,  for  Cosmo  brought  and  sent 
a  variety  of  books,  scientific  magazines,  mis 
sionary  reports,  wonderful  papers  on  astronomy, 
voyages  of  discovery,  travels  to  strange  places. 
So  that  Andrew  in  his  physical  darkness  had 
his  mental  vision  opened. 

He  became  gradually  acquainted  with  peoples 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  203 

and  nations  very  far  off.  This  world,  which 
had  been  bounded  by  Glasgow  and  Edinburgh, 
spread  itself  out  from  east  to  west,  from  Green 
land  to  the  outermost  shores  of  China.  His 
darkness  was  peopled  with  all  sorts  and  condi 
tions  of  men,  and  he  grew  more  catholic  every 
day  in  all  his  views  and  feelings.  Imagination 
—  the  creative  faculty  —  became  busy  in  his 
narrow  brain,  and  made  pictures  of  strange 
cities  in  his  mind. 

Hitherto  humanity  had  been  to  Andrew  only 
Scotch  humanity,  a  species  a  little  superior  to 
"thae  English  o'er  the  Border,"  and  immeasure- 
ably  in  advance  of  "  thae  meeserable,  ignorant 
popish  Irish  across  the  watter."  But  he  was 
new  daily  more  and  more  amazed  at  the  variety 
of  humanity.  He  held,  indeed,  confidently  to 
his  Scotch  ideal  as  "  the  maist  speeritual  and 
wise-like  development ;  but  he  listened  with  a 
pathetic  interest  to  Ann's  descriptions  of  fig 
ures,  faces,  and  costumes  of  less  fortunate 
nations. 

And  Ann  grew  to  thoroughly  enjoy  these 
hours  of  reading  and  conversation.  At  first 
they  had  been  consecrated  to  a  labour  of  love 
only;  but  very  soon  she  had  a  joy  in  them 


204  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

quite  equal  to  that  of  her  father.  When  they 
had  such  a  book  to  read  as  Moffat's  Africa,  or 
Hue's  Travels  in  Central  Asia,  or  the  doings 
of  Hastings  or  Clive  in  the  East  Indies,  or 
some  wonderful  astronomical  sermon  by  Dr. 
Chalmers,  both  alike  longed  for  the  hour 
when,  the  daily  work  being  done,  they  could  sit 
down  on  their  own  hearth,  and  lose  themselves 
in  the  glorious  or  self-denying  deeds  of  the 
great  souls  who,  through  all  after  time,  shall  be 
called  "  heroes  "  among  men.  And  then  when 
Cosmo  next  visited  them,  what  delightful  dis 
cussions  and  conversations  grew  out  of  these 
mental  experiences. 

So  the  winter  passed  quietly  and  very  hap 
pily  away,  and  all  the  time  Andrew  was  slowly 
but  surely  recovering  his  old  strength  of  body. 
This  was  not  an  unmitigated  good.  The  might 
gathering  in  his  muscles  made  his  helplessness 
more  significant  and  fretting  to  him.  For  no 
one  will  suppose  that  the  many  bright  hours 
were  not  shadowed  by  dark  and  gloomy  condi 
tions.  In  all  her  fruitful  lands,  earth  has  her 
deserts.  The  work  of  God  is  barren  in  some 
parts.  A  rose  is  not  all  flower ;  it  hath  much 
of  lower  beauty.  So  even  that  life  which  is 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  20$ 

hidden  with  Christ  in  God,  is  not  entirely  joy. 
It  has  its  doubts  and  despairs,  as  well  as  its 
confidences  and  its  aspirations. 

Andrew  had  many  sad  hours  as  his  full 
strength  came  back  to  him,  —  hours  in  which 
he  longed  for  the  bench  and  the  work  which  he 
had  so  passionately  flung  aside ;  hours  when  he 
longed  with  a  great  longing  for  the  sea  and 
the  boats  and  the  wet  blowing  sands  ;  some 
hours,  even,  when  he  longed  for  the  bustle  of 
the  little  town,  and  for  all  his  share  in  the  toil, 
which  is  the  joy  as  well  as  the  weariness  of  a 
man's  heart. 

Above  all  things  he  longed  for  the  kirk,  for 
the  sound  of  the  holy  song  and  the  voice  of  the 
preacher.  The  memory  of  the  riant,  self-satis 
fied  voice  had  ceased  to  fret  him,  either  to  think 
or  to  do  evil. 

"The  Word  is  the  Lord's  Word,  Ann,"  he 
said  one  day,  as  they  were  speaking  of  the 
young  man.  "  The  Word  is  the  Lord's  Word, 
and  great  is  the  company  o'  preachers ;  and 
it  isna  possible  they  should  a'  be  parfection. 
Here  and  there  will  be  ane  better  or  worse 
than  the  rest ;  and  the  like  o'  Dr.  Chalmers  or 
Dr.  Guthrie  isna  to  be  expectit  mair  than  ance 
in  a  generation." 


2O6  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

As  the  spring  weather  came  on  he  began 
to  talk  of  the  kirk  continually.  He  was  sure 
now  that  he  could  "  walk  to  Port  Braddon  weel 
enou' ; "  and  he  said  mournfully,  "  I  hae  been 
lang  awa'  frae  my  Fayther's  house,  dear 
bairn." 

"You  shall  not  bide  much  longer  away,  fa 
ther.  The  first  fine  Sabbath  Day  I  will  walk 
to  the  kirk  wi'  you.  It  will  be  a  glad  day  to 
us  baith." 

"  It  is  the  Spring  Communion  the  vera  next 
holy  day,  Ann,"  he  said  a  little  later.  "It  has 
just  come  into  my  heart.  I  wad  like  weel  to 
go,  my  dear." 

"Then  you  shall  go,  father.  Even  if  it  be 
wet,  we  will  risk  the  rain  if  you  say  so." 

"  I'm  no  fearing  the  rain,  Ann." 

"Then,  wet  or  fine,  we  will  go  together, 
father." 

Sabbath  morn  was,  however,  a  most  exquisite 
morning.  They  rose  early,  and  Ann  put  by  the 
breakfast  dishes,  and  left  the  house  as  fair  and 
sweet  as  a  flower  ere  they  began  their  walk 
to  Port  Braddon.  How  the  sea  dimpled  and 
shone !  How  delightful  was  the  fresh,  cool 
wind !  How  full  of  holy  joy  and  worship  was 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  2O/ 

the  sound  of  the  kirk  bells  as  they  neared  the 
little  town.  Ann  had  seldom  seen  her  father 
so  calmly  happy.  He  walked  onward  by  her 
side,  saying  little,  but  his  face  shone  with  an 
inward  peace  and  gratitude. 

They  reached  the  kirk  just  before  the  service 
began.  The  pews  were  full,  the  elders  sitting 
in  their  seats ;  the  minister,  with  his  hands  be 
fore  his  face,  was  waiting  in  the  pulpit.  An 
drew's  pew  was  near  it.  Holding  his  daughter's 
hand,  he  slowly  made  his  way  up  the  aisle  to  it. 
His  rapt,  sightless  face  was  lifted  heavenward ; 
he  had  forgotten  in  that  moment  that  he  was 
blind  and  mortal. 

The  minister  stood  up  and  watched  his  steps 
with  a  countenance  bright  with  sympathy.  In 
the  congregation  there  was  scarcely  a  dry  eye. 
The  children  gazed  at  him  with  wondering  pity. 
And  with  what  humility  and  gratitude  Andrew 
Carrick  ate  again  the  sacramental  bread,  no 
mortal  but  Cosmo  Carrick  knew.  For  to  him 
only  had  Andrew  confided  the  murderous  in 
tention  so  justly,  so  mercifully,  thwarted. 

After  this  full  reconciliation  with  the  house 
hold  of  faith,  the  summer  came  and  went  very 
peacefully.  The  cottages  were  now  all  empty 


208  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

and  deserted,  and  Ann  was  almost  glad  that  her 
father  could  not  see  how  rapidly  they  were  be 
coming  desolate.  He  never  mentioned  them  to 
her ;  and  though  Peter  came  regularly  to  spend 
an  hour  at  the  Lone  House,  he  never  spoke 
of  them  to  Andrew. 

Gradually  he  learned  to  find  his  way  with  his 
staff  about  the  house  and  garden,  and  even  up 
the  hill  to  the  Martyrs'  Stone.  And  when 
Ann  was  very  busy,  and  the  day  was  fine,  he 
often  went  there  to  meditate.  Ann  could  see 
him  beneath  its  shadow;  and  very  frequently 
now  she  heard  him  singing  those  blessed 
Psalms  which  fit  every  human  heart,  in  every 
mood  that  human  hearts  can  know.  Indeed, 
this  singing  and  making  melody,  and  setting 
all  his  happy  hours  to  music,  was  one  of  the 
pleasantest  changes  in  his  condition.  Before 
Jeannie  ran  away  from  his  home  and  love,  it 
was  one  of  his  most  usual  moods  ;  but  since 
that  event,  Ann  had  never  heard  him  sing  until 
this  summer. 

Just  before  the  New  Year,  Cosmo  came  to 
spend  the  holiday  with  them.  His  very  pres 
ence  in  the  house  made  it  holiday  to  Andrew 
and  Ann.  To  Andrew,  Cosmp  intensified  life. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  2(X) 

He  could  talk  to  Cosmo  of  things  he  did  not 
think  of  talking  to  Ann  about,  —  Kirk  govern 
ment,  and  parliamentary  doings,  and  the  work 
ing  of  the  great  reform  bill.  And  Ann  was 
happy  enough  to  sit  by  Cosmo's  side,  and  catch 
his  looks  of  love,  and  dream  of  some  future  in 
which  they  could  be  happy  together. 

One  morning  during  this  visit  Ann  was  up 
very  early.  Straining  the  milk  in  the  dairy, 
she  looked  up  and  saw  Cosmo  standing  at  the 
top  of  the  small  flight  of  stone  steps  watching 
her.  The  words  he  wanted  to  speak  were  in 
his  face ;  but  he  stepped  down  into  the  sweet, 
cool  place,  and,  taking  her  hand,  said,  — 

"  Ann,  my  dear  girl !  You  know  well  that  I 
love  you,  and  would  fain  make  you  my  wife. 
I  hope,  also,  that  you  do  love  me.  Can  you  say 
the  words  that  will  make  me  very  happy  ? " 

Ann  acknowledged  her  love,  but  as  for  mar 
riage,  "that,"  she  said,  "could  not  be  thought 
of."  She  pointed  out  to  him  her  father's  abso 
lute  dependence  upon  her  love  and  care. 

"He  might  come  and  live  with  us.  You 
know  that  I  am  as  his  own  son  to  him.  And  I 
love  him  as  if  he  were  indeed  my  father." 

"  For  all  that,  Cosmo,"  Ann  answered,  "  my 


210  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

father  wouldna  be  happy  out  of  his  ain  house. 
He  was  born  here,  and  he  has  aye  lived  here. 
Blind  he  may  be,  but  he  is  still  at  his  ain  fire 
side,  and  head  o'  his  ain  house.  That  means  a 
great  deal  to  father.  And  I  do  believe  it  would 
make  him  very  miserable  to  leave  this  place. 
Nor  would  he  like  to  live  under  any  roof-tree 
but  his  ain.  I  wouldna  dare  to  ask  him  to  do 
so.  It  isna  the  time,  Cosmo,  yet  to  talk  o'  mar 
riage.  Father  is  scarce  o'er  the  sting  o'  his 
troubles,  and  I  would  be  a  bad  daughter  indeed 
to  wound  him  o'er  again." 

"  But,  Nannie  dear,  I  think  he  would  wish  us 
to  marry." 

"  I  know  my  father  better  than  you  do, 
Cosmo.  To  say  aught  to  him  now,  is  just  to 
say,  '  Nannie  is  going  to  be  my  wife,  and  go  wi' 
me  to  Edinburgh;  so  you  must  give  up  your 
daughter,  or  else  your  home.  Please  yourself.' " 

"  Would  not  my  house,  in  his  helpless  condi 
tion,  be  better  for  him  than  this  lonely  place  ? 
He  would  see  and  hear  tell  of  all  that  is  going 
on,  and  the  kirk  is  next  door  to  the  house ; 
and"  — 

"Cosmo,  father  wouldna  bide  in  any  other 
man's  house ;  not  even  yours.  He  would  break 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  211 

his  heart  in  a  strange  house ;  and  what  pleasure 
could  I  have  in  my  house,  thinking  o'  my  poor 
father  feeling  his  way,  like  a  forsaken  bairn, 
through  this  house  ?  Not  yet,  Cosmo.  I  canna 
leave  my  duty  to  serve  my  pleasure,  forbye  this 
duty  is  pleasure  as  well  as  duty." 

Cosmo  kissed  her  tenderly  for  answer.  Wait 
ing,  which  would  have  been  intolerable  to  undis 
ciplined  hearts,  was  not  difficult  to  these  two. 
They  knew  how  to  possess  a  true  passion,  in 
stead  of  being  taken  "  possession  of  "  by  it. 

"  If  our  marriage  is  the  will  of  God,  he  will 
bring  it  to  pass  in  his  ain  way  and  time,"  con 
tinued  Ann;  "and  his  way  will  be  one  of  peace 
and  pleasantness."  And  Cosmo  cheerfully  ac 
cepted  her  decision. 

As  he  stood  by  her  side  in  the  dairy  he 
heard  Andrew  singing.  The  blind  man  had 
found  his  way  to  his  chair  on  the  hearth  and 
was  singing  "  St.  Marnock's."  The  voice,  so 
rich  and  powerful,  flashed  a  thought  through 
Cosmo's  mind  —  a  thought  so  sweet  and  hope 
ful,  that  he  wondered  he  had  never  entertained 
it  before. 

He  said  nothing  of  it  to  Ann,  however,  but 
as  soon  as  he  returned  to  Edinburgh  he  gave  it 


212  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

force  and  being :  he  bought  a  parlour  organ  of 
large  compass  and  fine  tone  and  sent  it  to 
Andrew.  And  no  words  can  describe  An 
drew's  joy.  For  he  had  a  good  natural  taste 
for  music,  and  with  a  little  help  from  Cosmo  he 
was  soon  on  familiar  terms  with  his  instrument. 

Henceforward  it  was  the  companion  and 
familiar  of  all  his  moods.  While  Ann  went  up 
and  down  her  house,  the  noble  strains  followed 
her.  And  she  could  soon  tell  from  his  choice 
of  melodies,  whether  he  was  up  on  the  Delect 
able  Mountains,  or  mourning  in  the  dungeon  of 
Giant  Despair,  forgetful  for  the  time  that  he 
had  Hopeful's  key  in  his  breast.  As  the  years 
went  by,  he  acquired  a  wonderful  command 
over  his  organ.  Not  that  he  ever  played 
artistically  ;  but  he  did  play  so  that  even 
artists  listened  to  him  with  pleasure  and 
astonishment. 

These  events  indicate  the  main  currents  of 
Andrew's  renewed  life.  In  some  respects  it 
was  a  much  richer  life  than  before  the  loss  of 
his  sight ;  but  yet  there  were  hours  when  even 
the  sweet  spirit  of  his  organ  could  not  charm 
away  the  mournful  phantoms  that  peopled  his 
darkness  —  hours  also,  when  it  failed  to  heal 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  21 3 

the  great  longing  which  he  had  to  find  again 
his  lost  Jeannie. 

Yet  he  never  spoke  of  her,  and  Ann  had 
nothing  pleasant  to  tell  him.  During  the  very 
height  of  his  illness,  a  letter  from  Jeannie 
came  to  Ann.  It  was  dated  from  an  interior 
station  three  hundred  miles  north  of  Sydney, 
and  was  full  of  complaining,  of  sorrow,  and  of 
fear.  She  said  that  her  baby  was  dead,  and 
that  she  was  glad  it  was  dead  and  gone  away 
from  such  a  miserable  life.  And  the  dead 
baby  was  not  the  worst  news.  She  said 
Walter  had  grown  discouraged,  and  everything 
had  gone  against  him.  He  had  fallen  among 
bad  companions.  He  drank  constantly,  and 
alas !  poor  Jeannie  said  "  he  was  ill  to  her ! 
She  was  sick.  She  was  homesick.  She 
thought  she  should  die." 

This  was  Jeannie's  complaint ;  her  petition 
was  still  more  pitiful  —  "  would  Ann  please  ask 
her  father  to  send  them  just  enough  siller  to 
win  back  to  dear  old  Scotland  once  more  ? 
Walter's  father  would  not  give  them  a  shilling 
unless  he  left  her ;  and  though  Walter  was  ill  to 
her,  he  was  not  bad  enough  to  do  a  thing  like 
that." 


214  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

These  and  other  complaints  growing  out  of 
them  —  want  of  all  comforts,  want  of  cloth 
ing,  loneliness,  etc.  —  Jeannie  made  with  a 
pitiful  earnestness  which  almost  broke  Ann's 
heart.  She  wished  that  she  could  avoid 
answering  the  letter  at  all;  but  Jeannie  had 
begged  her  "  for  any  sake,  to  send  her  some 
reply,  though  it  was  only  to  deny  her  a' 
things  :  the  silence,  the  waiting  for  letters  that 
never  came,"  she  said,  "  making  her  that  fretful 
and  wretched  that  she  wasna  able  to  bear  any 
other  trouble." 

So  Ann  wrote  her  a  letter  full  of  love  and 
sorrow.  Something  of  all  the  tragic  events 
which  had  driven  her  father  to  the  grave's 
mouth,  she  had  to  tell ;  but  she  laid  no  blame 
on  Jeannie.  Yet  the  poor  creature  evidently 
blamed  herself.  She  wrote  no  more;  and  a 
second  letter  which  Ann  sent  her  after  An 
drew's  recovery,  came  back  to  her.  Jeannie 
and  her  husband  had  gone  away  and  left  no 
trace  behind  them.  Since  then  there  had  been 
only  unbroken  silence,  and  Ann  thought  it  best 
not  to  mention  a  subject  so  sorrowful  and  so 
apparently  hopeless. 

But  if  Andrew  did  not  speak  of  Jeannie,  he 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  21$ 

did  not  cease  to  think  of  her.  Soon  after  his 
own  salvation  from  death,  he  began  to  make 
excuses  for  Jeannie.  Indeed,  this  mood  was 
the  delayed  but  certain  necessity  which  was  a 
part  of  the  creed  inborn  and  interwoven  in  his 
very  being.  Stormy  wind  and  ocean,  love's  in 
gratitude  and  wrong,  the  lightning's  cruel  flash, 
all  were  alike  His  ministers,  fulfilling  His  will. 
It  was  the  keystone  of  his  own  submission, 
the  sentiment  of  his  most  triumphant  song. 

He  certainly  confessed  to  Cosmo  Carrick  that 
he  had  "  been  permitted  to  wander  sae  far,  far 
awa'  from  his  Fayther's  house,  that  naething 
but  a  fiery  message  from  heaven  itsel'  could 
bring  him  back ;  but  then,"  he  would  add  tri 
umphantly,  "  I  was  aye  his  child  !  I  was  ne'er 
forgotten  !  I  was  ne'er  made  little  of !  and  that 
is  the  glory  o*  his  covenant  wif  the  seed  o'  the 
righteous." 

So,  by  the  same  reasoning,  he  was  just  enough 
to  give  Jeannie  also  the  benefit  of  such  a  con 
dition,  and,  by  a  benign  interpretation  of  the 
great  parable,  assign  the  prodigal  son's  position 
to  his  wandering  daughter.  And  the  oftener 
he  reasoned  Jeannie  into  this  position,  the  more 
lovingly  he  longed  for  her  return  to  his  love. 


2l6  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

While  she  was  yet  a  great  way  off,  his  heart 
was  seeking  her. 

But  year  after  year  passed,  and  no  further 
word  came  from  Jeannie.  Even  Ann  gave  up 
hoping.  All  her  letters  remained  unanswered, 
and  after  five  years'  neglect  any  love  but  a 
parent's  love  ceases  to  remember.  For  silence 
and  absence  do  not  make  the  heart  grow  fonder. 
We  should  not  forget  the  dead  if  we  ever 
heard  from  them.  It  is  the  speechless  blank 
from  which  comes  neither  voice  nor  messenger 
that  appalls  love  and  slays  memory. 

Ann  was  now  twenty-eight  years  old.  When 
Jeannie  went  away  she  was  barely  twenty-one. 
But  she  was  still  a  beautiful  woman ;  for  the 
culture  of  varied  reading,  the  association  with 
her  cousin  Cosmo,  and  the  elevating  tendencies 
of  sorrow  bravely  borne,  had  given  to  her  far 
more  charm  than  time  had  taken  from  her. 
She  was  a  pearl  of  womanhood ;  reverent, 
domestic,  peaceful,  affectionate.  She  loved 
God  with  all  her  heart,  and  went  about  her 
daily  duties  unchallenged  by  any  of  those  deso 
lating  problems  which  make  the  knees  to 
tremble,  and  the  heart  turn  sick  with  fear. 

And  to  Cosmo  Carrick  she  was  the  one 
woman  in  the  whole  world  ! 


CHAPTER   XL 


Is  not  the  life  well  spent 

Which  loves  the  lot  that  kindly  Nature  weaves  ? 
Which  throws  light  pleasure  over  true  content, 
Blossoms  with  fruitage,  flowers  as  well  as  leaves, 
And  sweetens  wisdom  with  a  taste  of  mirth  ? 

Who  crowneth  thee  with  loving  kindness  and  tender  mercy. 

Psalms. 


ONE  morning  in  the  early  winter  Ann 
Carrick  was  sitting  in  the  house-place 
with  a  measure  of  vegetables  on  her  knee, 
which  she  was  preparing  for  the  midday  meal. 
The  room  was  in  exquisite  order ;  there  was 
a  bright  fire  on  the  snow-white  hearth,  and 
Ann  sat  with  an  air  of  happy  serenity,  busy 
about  her  duty,  and  yet  listening  to  her  father, 
who  was  at  his  organ  filling  the  room  with  roll 
ing  cadences  of  sweet  and  solemn  sounds. 

Outside  it  v/as  the  dreariest  of  days.  From 
the  ocean  came  drifting  fogs  and  showers  of 
chilling  rain.  The  hills  loomed  huge  and  pale 
in  the  misty  air.  The  grey  Lone  House  stood 
gaunt  and  gloomy  amid  its  melancholy  moors. 
217 


21 8  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

But  Ann  was  full  of  calm  content  in  her  clean, 
white  home.  The  fire  crackled  and  blazed,  the 
soup  bubbled  beside  it,  and  the  little  table  was 
spread  for  an  early  dinner,  so  that  they  could 
begin  the  sooner  a  new  book  which  had  come 
the  previous  night. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  momentary  shadow. 
It  was  as  if  some  one  had  passed  the  window. 
Ann  looked  up  and  listened  to  hear  if  there 
were  a  knock  at  the  door.  Ere  she  was  satis 
fied,  a  pale  face  —  almost  ghost-like  in  the 
vapoury  atmosphere  —  looked  in  at  the  window, 
and  a  hand  beckoned  her  outside. 

She  put  down  her  bowl  of  vegetables  and 
obeyed  the  motion.  There  was  no  one  in  sight. 
Then  she  went  around  to  the  back  of  the  house, 
and  saw  a  woman  leaning  against  the  dairy 
door.  She  was  in  thin,  wretched  clothing. 
She  was  shivering,  and  wet,  and  quite  worn 
out.  It  was  Jeannie.  Ann  knew  her  at  the 
first  glance.  She  ran  toward  her  and  clasped 
her  in  her  arms  ;  she  gave  her  kisses  and  loving 
words  of  welcome. 

"  Gie  me  a  drink  o'  milk,  Nannie,"  were  the 
first  words  Jeannie  uttered  ;  and  Ann  looked 
with  fear  and  pity  at  the  famishing  creature,  as 
she  greedily  drank  it. 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  2IQ 

"  I  havena  tasted  since  yestermorn,  Nannie," 
she  said  wearily;  "and  I  have  walked  —  Oh 
Nannie,  I  canna  tell  you  how  far  I  have  walked 
—  sae  many,  many,  weary,  weary  miles  !  I 
am  dying  of  want  and  pain  and  sorrow.  Oh 
Nannie,  ask  father  to  let  me  bide  at  hame  ! " 

Ann  led  her  sister  into  the  dairy  and  made 
her  sit  down.  "  Eat  and  drink,  my  dearie !  " 
she  said.  "Eat  and  drink  your  fill,  Jeannie. 
You  arena  going  awa'  from  us  any  mair,  dearie, 
I'll  go  now  and  speak  to  father." 

"  Nannie,  Nannie  !  I  daurna  see  my  father. 
What  will  he  say  to  me  at  all  ?  I  am  feared — 
I  am  feared  to  death  to  look  into  his  face." 

"  Whist,  dearie !  You  are  sair  changed, 
Jeannie.  And  father  is  a  deal  different.  He 
is  nearer  to  God,  and  kinder  to  folk." 

Andrew  was  still  playing.  His  face  was  up 
lifted,  his  fingers  wandering  among  the  keys. 
Ann  put  her  hand  on  his  shoulder,  and  said 
gently  and  yet  with  a  certain  eagerness  that 
arrested  his  attention, — 

"  Father  !     Father  !  " 

"  Weel,  lassie,  what  is  it  ?  I  was  just  trying 
to  find  a  bonnie  bit  that  has  slipped  awa'  from 
me.  It  was  only  three  or  four  notes,  but  I 
canna  find  them." 


22O  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

"  Father !  You  have  found  mair  this  morn 
than  a  few  lost  notes  —  you  have  found  the 
piece  o'  lost  siller.  You  have  found  —  O 
father  !  what  —  who  do  you  think  has  come 
at  last  ? " 

"  Ann  !     Ann  ! " 

"  You  have  found  your  poor  lost  Jeannie  !  " 

"Whar  is  she?  whar  is  she?  Ann  Carrick, 
whar  is  my  Jeannie  ?  Tak'  me  to  her,  tak'  me 
to  her!" 

"  She  shall  come  to  you.  She  is  in  the  dairy 
waiting  for  your  word.  What  will  I  tell  her  ? " 

"  Tell  her  she  is  long  looked  for.  Tell  her 
she  is  long  forgiven.  Tell  her  she  is  welcome 
to  my  heart  and  hame  ! " 

He  turned  his  sightless  face  eagerly  to  the 
door;  and  when  he  heard  Jeannie's  footsteps 
his  brown  cheeks  flushed,  and  he  opened  wide 
his  arms,  and  with  a  great  cry  took  her  to  his 
breast.  There  the  wretched  woman  sobbed  out 
her  sorrow  and  her  love. 

Andrew  could  say  little.  He  took  her  face 
between  his  hands  and  kissed  it.  No  words 
could  have  been  so  eloquent.  It  was  an  ex 
pression  of  affection  so  unusual  that  Jeannie  in 
all  her  life  could  only  remember  one  other  like 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  221 

token  of  fatherly  love,  —  the  kiss  he  had  given 
her  on  that  Sabbath  when  she  had  made  her 
confession  of  faith,  and  received  her  first  com 
munion. 

Gradually,  when  she  had  been  warmed  and 
fed  and  clothed,  she  began  to  tell  her  pitiful 
story.  The  death  of  her  baby,  she  said,  had 
been  the  beginning  of  sorrows.  Then  Walter's 
business  had  gone  wrong.  He  got  a  good 
situation  and  lost  it.  One  financial  trouble  was 
followed  by  another,  until  the  young  man,  thor 
oughly  dissatisfied  and  disappointed,  began  to 
drink. 

Then  he  had  gone  from  bad  to  worse  ;  and 
whatever  dissolute,  idle,  unfaithful,  cruel  hus 
bands  can  make  a  woman  suffer,  Jeannie  had 
suffered  from  Walter  Grahame.  "  He  seemed 
at  the  last  to  take  a  great  hatred  to  me," 
Jeannie  said  sadly.  "  I  did  a'  I  could,  but  he 
blamed  me  for  his  wasted  life,  and  for  a'  that 
had  happened  ;  and  sometimes  I  feared,  when 
the  liquor  had  the  mastery,  that  he  would  kill 
me  outright." 

She  drew  a  terrible  picture  of  the  miseries 
she  had  had  to  endure  in  the  rude  frontier  life 
to  which  she  had  been  taken.  Poverty  had 


222  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

been  the  least  of  her  sorrows,  though  poverty 
in  its  bitterest  extremities  she  had  been  famil 
iar  with. 

"  Hungry  for  a  bite  o'  bread,  thirsty  for  a 
drink  o'  water,  I  hae  many  a  time  been, 
Nannie  :  sae  hungry  and  sae  thirsty  that  the 
thought  o'  the  oat-cakes  and  the  milk  in  the 
dairy  was  like  the  thought  o'  heaven  ;  and  I 
hae  wept  the  nights  awa  wi'  such  starving 
longings,  and  nane  to  speak  a  word  o'  love  or 
hope  to  me." 

"  Wasna  your  husband  wi'  you,  Jeannie  ? " 

"He  was  vera  seldom  wi'  me,  and  I  grew  to 
be  glad  o'  his  absence.  He  was  vera  cruel 
every  way,"  said  the  poor  creature,  shrinking 
involuntarily,  as  if  the  memory  could  bring  the 
blow  she  had  evidently  been  used  to  experience. 

"  He  drank  the  days  awa',  and  the  nights 
awa' ;  and  the  men  he  bided  with  were  such  as 
the  de'ils  in  hell  may  be.  At  last  he  drank 
himsel'  awa',  and  I  couldna  shed  a  tear  for  him. 
I  was  only  glad  that  I  had  at  last  got  from 
under  his  cruel  hand." 

"  Whar  was  you  then  ? " 

"  I  was  awa'  in  a  far  lonely  place ;  but  I 
watched  for  help,  and  I  prayed  for  help,  and  in 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  223 

four  months  a  wagon  was  sent  to  Sydney,  and 
I  got  awa'  with  it.  When  we  were  fairly  on 
the  road,  I  cried  for  vera  joy  ;  for  I  had  but  one 
thought  and  one  wish,  and  that  was  to  see  my 
home  again.  I  prayed  that  God  would  give  me 
this  favour,  though  it  was  but  to  win  to  the 
door-stone  and  die  there.  Then,  at  least,  I 
would  be  buried  in  dear  auld  Scotland,  beside 
my  mother  and  my  ain  folk." 

"And  whatever  way  did  you  get  across  the 
watter,  my  poor  lassie  ? "  asked  Andrew  pitifully. 

"  I  worked  my  way  across  as  under-steward- 
ess.  A  long,  weary  voyage  it  was,  for  I  was 
like  to  drop  the  whole  time.  But  folk  werena 
bad  to  me,  and  I  had  twenty-four  shilling  pieces 
in  fees  when  I  left  the  ship.  With  this  sum  I 
got  near  to  Carlisle,  and  I  hae  walked  the  rest 
o'  the  way." 

"  O  Jeannie  !  Jeannie  ! " 

"  Ay,  Nannie,  it  was  weary  wark.  I  begged 
a  bite  o'  bread  from  poor  cotter  folk,  and  I  slept 
in  such  shelter  as  I  could  find  for  mysel'.  I 
hae  been  near  two  weeks  on  the  road.  When 
I  saw  my  ain  hame  at  last,  I  was  that  o'ercome 
I  thought  I  should  fall  down  and  die  ere  I  could 
reach  the  gate  o'  it.  But  I  kept  saying  wi' 


224  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

every  step  I  took  forward,  '  God  help  me  ! '  and 
he  did  help  me.  So  I  won  to  my  ain  hame  and 
my  ain  folk  once  main  But  I'm  sair  worn  out, 
Nannie." 

Poor  Jeannie!  she  was  two  years  younger 
than  her  sister  Ann,  but  she  looked  twenty 
years  older.  Her  own  way  to  be  happy  had 
brought  her  nothing  but  hardship  and  suffer 
ing.  The  next  day  she  was  very  sick;  the  ex 
haustion  and  exposure  of  her  long  walk  were 
followed  by  a  low  fever,  and  for  a  month  she  was 
prostrate  and  helpless,  and  had  to  be  nursed 
back  to  life  with  much  love  and  constant  care. 

But  after  she  was  quite  recovered  she  fell 
naturally  into  her  place  as  her  father's  compan 
ion.  And  it  soon  became  evident  to  Cosmo  and 
Ann  that  they  might  now  anticipate  their  own 
happiness  without  any  shadow  of  care  or  re 
proach. 

It  is  true,  when  Cosmo  spoke  to  Andrew 
for  his  eldest  daughter,  Andrew  was  at  first 
shocked  and  mortified.  "I  hae  been  vera  selfish 
in  my  thoughts,"  he  said  with  an  air  of  chagrin. 
"  I  thought,  Cosmo,  it  was  me  mysel'  you  were 
coming  to  see  sae  far  and  sae  oft ;  and  it  was 
Ann !  and  I  was  only  the  occasion.  Weel ! 


THE   LONE   HOUSE.  22$ 

weel !  A  man  must  try  and  take  his  rebukes 
wi'  due  humility.  You  and  Ann !  And  a' 
these  years  it  was  just  you  and  Ann!  —  and  I 
didna  ken  —  I  was  blind  !  " 

But  this  was  only  the  first  complaint  of  love 
that  finds  itself  less  prized  than  it  expected  and 
believed.  When  Cosmo  had  talked  with  him 
an  hour,  Andrew  was  ready  to  put  himself  aside 
and  anticipate  the  happiness  of  a  child  who 
had  been  so  kind  and  so  faithful  to  him.  And 
from  this  point  it  was  easy  to  foresee  many 
pleasures  and  advantages.  He  would  then  have 
a  stronger  claim  on  Cosmo,  and  one  which  the 
young  minister  would  be  proud  and  glad  to  ad 
mit.  Both  his  daughters  would  have  a  protec 
tor  when  it  pleased  God  to  remove  him ;  and 
this  thought  was  a  great  consolation  when  he 
cast  his  fears  into  the  future. 

Then,  as  Ann  reminded  him,  he  would  have 
two  homes  instead  of  one,  and  the  long  win 
ters  could  be  broken  in  two.  One-half  of  them 
could  be  spent  in  Edinburgh,  where  he  could 
hear  all  the  grand  sermons  and  all  the  grand 
music  he  was  able  to  enjoy.  Then,  when  weary 
of  the  excitement  of  the  city,  he  could  return 
to  the  lonely  peace  of  the  Galloway  home. 


226  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

So  the  marriage  was  accepted  in  a  better 
spirit  than  the  lovers  had  dared  to  hope ;  and 
finally  it  became  a  source  of  great  interest  to 
Andrew.  He  took  the  utmost  pride  in  Ann's 
wedding  garments,  and  drew  liberally  from  his 
means  to  procure  her  "  a  dress  o'  white  satin, 
that  wouldna  shame  ony  minister's  bride."  He 
was  indeed  quite  amused  and  delighted  to  listen 
to  Jeannie's  descriptions  of  Ann's  pretty  pur 
chases  and  presents ;  and  when  Cosmo  put  the 
plain  gold  wedding  ring  in  his  hand,  and  the 
band  of  diamonds  that  was  to  "  keep  "  it,  Andrew 
blessed  them  both,  and  said,  — 

"  If  a  good  wife  is  from  the  Lord,  Cosmo,  sae 
also  is  a  good  husband,  Ann.  You  are  baith 
the  gift  o'  God  to  each  other.  'Tis  a  grand 
thing,  bairns,  when  you  can  call  Christ  to  your 
marriage  feast.  Such  marriages  hae  '  the  bless 
ing.'  And  that  blessing  will  aye  turn  the  water 
o'  daily  life  into  the  best  o'  the  wine  o'  Para 
dise.  For  there's  naething  like  love,  Cosmo. 
I  ken  that  mysel'.  I  havena  forgotten  my  ain 
dear  wife  Margaret.  Indeed,  I  see  her  oftener 
since  I  was  blind  than  I  used  to  see  her  wi' 
baith  my  eyes  open.  And  she's  aye  young  and 
bonnie  and  sweet  and  comforting.  Ann  isna 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  221] 

like  her  mother  —  few  women  can  compare  wi1 
her;  but  Ann  is  a  good  girl,  Cosmo,  and  she 
will  be  true  and  brave  and  faithfu'  to  you  in  all 
things." 

This  summer  was  a  very  happy  one.  Ann 
was  gladly  busy  about  her  wedding,  and  Jeannie 
wandered  up  the  hills  with  her  father.  They 
often  took  milk  and  oat-cakes  and  a  book 
with  them,  and  spent  the  whole  day  among 
the  heather.  And  in  these  confidential  hours 
Jeannie  told  her  father  all  that  had  happened 
to  her,  and  the  two  drew  very  close  together, 

Gradually,  too,  Jeannie's  old  friends  began 
to  call  upon  her  again,  and  there  was  a  breath 
from  the  outside  world  that  was  pleasant  enough 
—  bits  of  broken  chatter  and  gossip  —  rumours 
of  old  acquaintances  and  what  they  were  doing, 
and  like  to  do  ;  and  in  this  way  also  the  monotony 
of  life  was  broken  for  Andrew.  A  few  years 
before  no  one  could  have  made  him  believe  that 
the  comings  and  goings,  the  failures  and  suc 
cesses,  the  births  and  weddings  and  deaths, 
among  Port  Braddon  folk,  could  have  been  so 
interesting  to  him. 

In  the  fine  October  weather,  before  the  winter 
came  on,  Cosmo  and  Ann  were  married.  The 


228  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

ceremony  was  performed  in  Port  Braddon  Free 
Kirk ;  and  there  Andrew,  with  a  glad  heart, 
gave  his  handsome,  faithful  daughter  to  the 
cousin  who  had  been  so  grateful  and  so  kind  to 
him.  There  was  a  crowded  kirk,  and  Ann  was 
a  noble-looking  bride  in  her  rich  gown  of  white 
satin,  and  a  soft  white  veil  shading  her  bright 
brown  hair  and  her  rose-tinted  cheeks.  And 
Andrew  saw  her  through  Jeannie's  eyes,  from 
the  orange  flowers  that  crowned  her,  to  the 
snowy  bows  on  her  snowy  satin  slippers. 

"  Handsome  ?  I  should  think  she  was  hand 
some  ! "  said  Jeannie,  as  she  sat  pouring  out  her 
father's  tea  that  evening.  "  You,  nor  any  other, 
ever  saw  a  handsomer  bride,  so  stately  looking 
too,  and  so  happy  and  modest.  And  the  like  of 
Cousin  Cosmo  for  a  dignified  minister,  isna  to  be 
met  wi'  in  the  bounds  o'  Scotland,  father.  And 
the  way  you  stood  by,  and  put  Ann's  hand  in 
Cosmo's  hand,  brought  the  tears  to  every  eye, 
father.  For  you  looked  sae  proper  and  respect 
able,  maist  like  a  minister  yoursel' ;  and  I  was 
just  as  proud  o'  my  ain  folk  this  morning  as  a 
queen  o'  her  kingdom." 

"  I  did  weel  then,  did  I,  Jeannie  ?  " 

"  You  did  a'  things  just  parfect.     When  you 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  2  29 

sat  at  the  head  of  the  wedding  feast,  you  looked 
like  a  blessing  there  ;  and  your  short  prayer  at 
the  feast  and  at  the  going  awa'  couldna  hae  been 
mair  affecting.  O  father,  father,  I  am  sure 
they  will  be  happy  !  " 

"  It  was  a  good  bridal,  Jeannie." 

"  I  ne'er  saw  a  bride  and  bridegroom  go  awa' 
wi'  such  a  gracious  feeling.  Elder  Scott  said 
it  was  '  the  maist  solemnly  happy  "  occasion  " 
he  had  ever  been  present  at;  sae  serene,  and 
yet  sae  full  o'  innocent  pleasure.'  Cosmo  was 
that  proud  o'  Ann,  and  Ann  that  proud  o'  Cosmo, 
and  we  were  a'  proud  beyond  everything  o'  our 
father.  For  you  were  just  noble  in  a'  you 
looked  and  said  and  did." 

And  Andrew  was  exceedingly  happy  in  these 
praises.  If  it  was  vanity,  it  was  a  very  sinless 
vanity.  He  was  glad  to  have  shown  the  kirk- 
folk  what  he  thought  a  God-fearing,  respectable 
wedding  ought  to  be.  Daffing  and  dancing  and 
song-singing  and  joke-making  at  such  a  solemn 
transfer  of  all  life's  duties  and  affections  had 
always  seemed  to  Andrew  a  habit  unworthy  of 
pious  and  sensible  men  and  women;  and  he 
hoped  that  Ann's  wedding  might  stand  for  an 
example  of  a  joyous  occasion  so  innocently  kept 


23O  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

that  Christ  himself  might  have  been  bidden  to 
the  marriage  feast  at  the  Lone  House. 

Jeannie  now  took  Ann's  place  in  the  house. 
But  Jeannie's  way  was  not  Ann's  way.  When 
Jeannie  became  mistress,  she  made  far  less  but 
ter  and  cheese,  and  she  did  far  less  cleaning, 
but  she  read  more  and  she  walked  more  with 
her  father ;  and  the  busy  streets  of  Port  Brad- 
don  grew  familiar  with  the  sight  of  the  young 
woman  and  the  old  blind  man,  to  whom  she 
talked  so  constantly,  telling  him  all  they  passed, 
and  explaining,  as  they  walked,  all  that  was 
going  on. 

Grahame  saw  them  often,  but  he  always  kept 
out  of  their  way.  Once,  indeed,  he  could  not 
do  so :  he  came  suddenly  upon  his  old  enemy ; 
and  Andrew,  who  was  listening  to  something 
Jeannie  was  saying,  lifted  a  smiling,  sightless 
face  to  him.  Jeannie  trembled,  but  made  no 
other  sign  ;  and  Grahame  was  troubled  and  sad 
at  the  sight  of  her.  He  longed  to  speak  to  her, 
to  ask  her  something  about  the  son  whom  he 
would  never  more  see.  The  news  of  his  death 
had  been  a  great  shock ;  he  had  never  been  quite 
the  same  man  since  the  terrible  drinking-bout 
which  followed  it.  He  had  grown  grey  and 


THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

shaking,  and  his  business  had  become  embar 
rassed,  and  the  once  prosperous,  influential  man 
had  lost  most  of  his  money  and  his  social 
prestige. 

One  day  Jeannie  went  into  Port  Braddon 
alone.  She  had  to  visit  the  dressmaker's ;  and 
Andrew,  not  caring  to  accompany  her,  had  re 
mained  at  home  with  his  organ.  As  she  went 
down  the  street,  she  saw  Grahame  coming  to 
wards  her.  She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  would 
have  passed  him  ;  but  he  laid  his  big  trembling 
hand  on  her,  and  said  huskily,  as  he  touched 
significantly  the  crape  on  her  dress,  and  then 
the  crape  on  his  hat,  — 

"  We  hae  baith  the  same  sorrow  ?  Is  not 
that  sae,  lassie  ?  " 

And  when  Jeannie  looked  up  at  him,  and  saw 
the  sorrow  in  the  eyes  searching  her  eyes,  and 
saw  the  sad  change  in  all  about  the  man,  she 
could  not  say  the  words  she  had  always  deter 
mined  to  say  if  Grahame  spoke  to  her.  She 
sighed,  and  answered,  — 

"  It  is  for  poor  Walter !  " 

The  words  made  the  old  man  sob.  He 
asked  several  questions,  and  she  answered  them 
kindly.  Then,  as  he  was  leaving  her  side,  he 


232  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

gave  her  the  reproach  her  own  father  had 
always  spared  her:  — 

"You  and  Walter  had  your  wills,  lassie,"  he 
said ;  "  now  you  can  sit  at  hame  and  count  the 
cost  o'  them !  And  when  you  hae  put  a'  else 
aside,  as  sorrows  bygane  and  o'er,  you  can  see 
the  outcome  o'  them  always  near  you, — your 
fayther  is  blind,  and  I  am  desolate  and  ruined 
and  broken-hearted." 

"  Forgive  me,  Master  Grahame.  I  am  very 
sorry." 

"  Na !  na  !  I  canna  do  that.  Sorrow  does 
not  undo  the  wrong ;  but  if  you  like,  you  may 
say  something  to  your  fayther  —  your  poor  blind 
fayther  —  that  I  am  sorry  too.  That  willna  gie 
him  back  his  sight,  and  your  sorrow  willna  gie 
me  back  the  hope  and  joy  o'  my  life,  my  bon- 
nie  lad  Walter.  You  see,  then,  that  sorrow 
that  mends  naught  is  worth  naught.  Good-by, 
lassie." 

"Can  I  do  aught  to  comfort  you,  Master 
Grahame  ? " 

"  No." 

"  Then  may  God  comfort  you." 

"  Ay ;  thar  is  nane  else  !  " 

Jeannie  walked  very  sorrowfully  home.     She 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  233 

found  Andrew  playing  wonderfully  on  his  organ ; 
and  all  the  still  rooms  of  the  Lone  House  were 
filled  with  some  magnificent  melody,  to  which 
he  was  singing,  "  Lord  thou  hast  been  our  dwell 
ing-place  in  all  generations."  He  could  not  see 
Jeannie's  troubled  face ;  but  as  soon  as  she  be 
gan  to  talk  to  him,  he  knew  from  her  voice 
that  some  unusual  event  had  happened. 

So  she  told  him  of  her  meeting  with  David 
Grahame.  She  described  the  man's  broken 
hearted  and  broken-down  appearance,  and  finally 
gave  Andrew  the  message  of  contrition  his  old 
enemy  had  sent  him.  And  Andrew  went  into 
his  room,  and  prayed  for  the  man  who  had  so 
bitterly  wronged  him,  while  Jeannie  sat  silently 
on  her  old  stool,  pondering  the  miserable  ques 
tions  her  father-in-law  had  asked  her. 

In  an  hour,  however,  Andrew  was  again 
making  lofty  and  solemn  music,  and  Jeannie 
was  singing  to  it.  For  Jeannie  had  her  father's 
taste  and  enthusiasm  for  music ;  and  she  had 
soon  learned  the  technical  part  of  it,  and  was 
thus  able  constantly  to  supply  Andrew  with 
new  themes  for  his  practice. 

Not  seldom  they  left  Sarah  Lochrigg  in 
charge  of  the  house,  and  went  to  Edinburgh 


234  THE  LONE  HOUSE. 

for  a  few  weeks  ;  and  these  visits  grew  more 
frequent  when  Ann  had  a  little  son  who  was 
baptised  Andrew.  This  boy  was  the  senior 
Andrew's  great  joy ;  he  delighted  to  cuddle 
him  in  his  arms,  and  croon  him  to  sleep  with 
some  old  Covenanting  melody. 

"  I  ken  prettier  songs,"  he  would  say  to  Ann, 
"  but  maybe,  dearie,  this  one  will  slip  through 
his  ears  into  his  heart,  and  help  to  set  the  first 
note  o'  life  to  the  right  key." 

Thus  for  many  and  many  a  peaceful,  happy 
year,  Jeannie  and  her  father  dwelt  together  in 
a  calm  joyousness,  almost  ideal  in  its  serene 
purity  and  freedom  from  all  earthly  care.  And 
day  by  day  they  climbed  to  the  goal  of  an 
existence  in  which  they  spoke  much  oftener 
to  God  and  of  God  than  to  the  world  and  of 
the  world. 

For  in  the  days  of  her  great  sorrow  and 
loneliness  in  the  Australian  bush,  Jeannie  had 
found  the  Christ  of  the  poor  and  the  forsaken. 
She  had  proved  his  ineffable  tendernesses,  and 
taken  royal  compassions  from  his  pierced  hands. 
And  it  was  with  Jeannie  that  Andrew  learned 
first  of  all  to  sit  down  at  the  foot  of  the  Cross. 

When  this  great  revelation  came  to  him,  he 


THE  LONE  HOUSE.  2 35 

was  like  one  that  dreameth.  He  kept  repeat 
ing  to  himself,  "  The  Cross  of  Christ !  The 
Cross  of  Christ !  It  cleanseth  from  all  sin ! 
Not  willing  that  any  should  perish  !  In  Christ 
all,  all  made  alive !  It  is  an  amazing  love ! 
Amazing  grace  !  "  And  he  set  these  assurances 
to  music  so  joyful  and  so  triumphant,  that  it  is 
worthy  to  be  the  prelude  of  an  antiphony  for 
the  church  militant  in  all  lands. 

Andrew  Carrick  lived  to  be  a  very  old  man. 
Every  year  his  faith  grew  stronger,  and  his 
nature  riper  and  sweeter.  Not  very  long  ago 
Death  touched  his  closed  eyes,  and  they  opened 
rapturously  amid  the  loveliness  of  the  "land 
very  far  off,"  and  the  joy  of  that  multitude, 
which  no  man  can  number.  And  oh !  after 
nearly  ninety  years  of  life's  fitful  fever,  — 

"  How  sweet  is  the  slumber  wherewith  the  King 
Causeth  the  weary  to  rest !  " 


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